is more than twenty years since I saw you. Have I grown very old?"
asked he.

"No, not old. I see the boy I remember; but your face is not so clear as
it used to be."

Lawrence Newt laughed.

"You compliment me without knowing it. My face is the lid of a chest full
of the most precious secrets; would you have the lid transparent? I am a
merchant. Suppose every body could look in through my face and see what I
really think of the merchandise I am selling! What profit do you think I
should make? No, no, we want no tell-tale faces in South Street."

He said this in a tone that corresponded with the expression which
baffled Mrs. Simcoe, and perplexed her only the more. But it did not
repel her nor beget distrust. A porcupine hides his flesh in bristling
quills; but a magnolia, when its time has not yet come, folds its heart
in and in with over-lacing tissues of creamy richness and fragrance.
The flower is not sullen, it is only secret.

"I suppose you are twenty years wiser than you were," said Mrs. Simcoe.

"What is wisdom?" asked Lawrence Newt.

"To give the heart to God," replied she.

"That I have discovered," he said.

"And have you given it?"

"I hope so."

"Yes, but haven't you the assurance?" asked she, earnestly.

"I hope so," responded Lawrence Newt, in the same kindly tone.

"But assurance is a gift," continued she.

"A gift of what?"

"Of Peace," replied Mrs. Simcoe.

"Ah! well, I have that," said the other, quietly, as his eyes rested upon
the portrait.

There was moisture in the eyes.

"Her daughter is very like her," he said, musingly; and the two stood
together silently for some time looking at the picture.

"Not entirely like her mother," replied Mrs. Simcoe, as if to assert some
other resemblance.

"Perhaps not; but I never saw her father."

As Lawrence Newt said this, Mrs. Simcoe raised her hand, opened it, and
held the miniature before his eyes. He took it and gazed closely at it.

"And this is Colonel Wayne," said he, slowly. "This is the man who broke
another man's heart and murdered a woman."

A mingled expression of pain, indignation, passionate regret, and
resignation suddenly glittered on the face of Mrs. Simcoe.

"Mr. Newt, Mr. Newt," said she, hurriedly, in a thick voice, "let us at
least respect the dead!"

Lawrence Newt, still holding the miniature in his hand, looked surprised
and searchingly at his companion. A lofty pity shot into his eyes.

"Could I speak