they should be traced by time rather than by sorrow. For Patience
Harrison was not an old woman, and had scarcely entered her
thirty-sixth year.

As she stood at the narrow entry of the shop, her hands folded, her
head bent forward, she might well attract any passer-by, while she
looked right and left, as if in hopes of seeing a well-known figure
come into the row, from either end.

Up and down, up and down, that eager, hungry glance, with an infinite
pathos in the dark eyes, scanned the narrow passage; and grew more
pathetic and more hungry every moment.

At last footsteps were heard on the pavement. Patience started, and
took a step forward, only to draw back again disappointed.

"The top of the morning to you, Mrs. Harrison. You are about early.
It is as fine a summer morning as I ever was out in."

The speaker was a tall, well-knit young man of two or three and thirty,
with a fine open countenance, and a broad square brow, round which
thick light curls clustered. No contrast could be greater than between
Patience Harrison and George Paterson: the man so full of life, and the
enjoyment of life; the woman so languid and weary-looking. He seemed
as if the world were a pleasant place to him, she as if it were a waste
and a wilderness.

"You are up and about early," George repeated. "Indeed, you look as if
you hadn't been to bed. I hope you haven't been up all night. Have
you, now?"

"Yes. How could I sleep? How could I rest? There was a worse storm
than ever last night at supper-time, and--and--Jack ran away out of the
house, and has never come back."

"The young rascal!" George exclaimed. "I'd like to thrash him!"

"Oh, don't say so! Don't say so! If ever a boy is scourged by a
tongue, Jack is. I mean to leave this house; I can't--I can't bear it
any longer."

"Well," George said, his eyes shining with a bright light--the light of
hope--"well, there's a home ready for you, you know that. The sooner
you come, the better."

"You know I can't do it. Why do you ask me? I wonder you should ask
me."

"I see no wonder in it," was the answer. "You've watched and waited
for eleven years; sure that's long enough! He will never come back."

"Yes," she said sadly; "yes. I have waited and watched, as you say.
It is the business of my life. I shall watch and wait to the end."

George Paterson gave an impatient gesture, and settled the workman's
basket on his broad shoulders, as if he were goin