oak.

"She did not cling long. She was just nineteen when she was married--she
was not twenty when you were born--she was just twenty when they buried
her. Oh! I did not think of myself only, but of her, when I heard the
saintly youth breathe that plaintive prayer, 'Draw them to thee, for they
wearily labor: they are heavily laden, gracious Father! oh, give them
rest!'

"'No chilling winds or pois'nous breath
Can reach that healthful shore:
Sickness and sorrow, pain and death,
Are felt and fear'd no more.'"

"And my father?" asked Hope, in a low voice.

"He went abroad for many years. Then he returned, and came sometimes to
Pinewood. His life was irregular. I think he gambled, for he and your
grandfather often had high words in the library about the money that he
wanted. But your grandfather never allowed you to leave the place. He
rarely spoke of your mother; but I think he often thought of her, and
he gradually fell into the habit you remember. Yet he had the same
ambition for you that he had had for your mother. He treated me always
with stately politeness; but I know that it was a dreary home for a young
girl. Hope," said Mrs. Simcoe, after a short pause, "that is all--the end
you yourself remember."

"Yes," replied Hope, in the same low, appalled tone, "my father went out
upon the pond, one evening, with a friend to bathe, and was drowned. Mr.
Gray's boys found him. My grandfather would not let me wear mourning for
him. I wore a blue ribbon the day Dr. Peewee preached his funeral sermon;
and I did not care to wear black. Aunty, I had seen him too little to
love him like a father, you know."

She said it almost as if apologizing to Mrs. Simcoe, who merely bowed her
head.

It was past midnight. It was the very moment when Abel Newt was starting
with horror as he saw his own reflection in the glass.

Something yet remained to be said between those two women. Each knew
it--neither dared to begin.

Hope Wayne closed her eyes with an inward prayer, and then said, calmly,
but in a low voice,

"And, aunty, the young man?"

Mrs. Simcoe took Hope's face between her caressing hands. She smoothed
the glistening golden hair, and kissed her upon the forehead.

"Aunty, the young man?" said Hope, in the same tone.

"Was Lawrence Newt," answered Mrs. Simcoe.

--It was the moment when Abel sat at his desk writing the name that Mrs.
Simcoe had pronounced.

Hope Wayne was perfectly sure it was coming,