step,--not with any
presumption on your dawning manhood,--oh, no,--nothing of this!

Quietly, meekly, feeling your whole heart shattered, and your mind
feeble as a boy's, and your purposes nothing, and worse than
nothing,--with only one proud feeling you fling your arm around the form
of that gentle sister,--the pride of a protector,--the feeling--"_I_
will care for you now, dear Nelly!"--that is all. And even that, proud
as it is, brings weakness.

You sit down together upon the lounge; Nelly buries her face in her
hands, sobbing.

"Dear Nelly!" and your arm clasps her more fondly.

There is a cricket in the corner of the room, chirping very loudly. It
seems as if nothing else were living,--only Nelly, Clarence, and the
noisy cricket. Your eye on the chair where she used to sit; it is drawn
up with the same care as ever beside the fire.

"I am _so_ glad to see you, Clarence," says Nelly, recovering herself;
there is a sweet, sad smile now And sitting there beside you, she tells
you of it all,--of the day, and of the hour,--and how she looked,--and
of her last prayer, and how happy she was.

"And did she leave no message for me, Nelly?"

"Not to forget us, Clarence; but you could not!"

"Thank you, Nelly. And was there nothing else?"

"Yes, Clarence,--to meet her one day!"

You only press her hand.

Presently your father comes in: he greets you with far more than his
usual cordiality. He keeps your hand a long time, looking quietly in
your face, as if he were reading traces of some resemblance that had
never struck him before.

The father is one of those calm, impassive men, who shows little upon
the surface, and whose feelings you have always thought cold. But now
there is a tremulousness in his tones that you never remember observing
before. He seems conscious of it himself, and forbears talking. He goes
to his old seat, and after gazing at you a little while with the same
steadfastness as at first, leans forward, and buries his face in his
hands.

From that very moment you feel a sympathy and a love for him, that you
have never known until then. And in after-years, when suffering or trial
come over you, and when your thoughts fly as to a refuge to that
shattered home, you will recall that stooping image of the
father,--with his head bowed, and from time to time trembling
convulsively with grief,--and feel that there remains yet by the
household fires a heart of kindred love and of kindred sorrow!