d by the sound of her footsteps, started up, and turning toward
her, said half-aloud:

"Lenora, is it you?"

Quickly she sprang forward, and soon one hand of the beggar was
clasped in hers, while the other rested upon her head, as he said,
"Lenora, my child, my daughter, you do not hate me?"

"Hate you, father?" she answered, "never, never."

"But," he continued, "has not she--my--no, not my wife--thank Heaven
not my wife now--but your mother, has not she taught you to despise
and hate me?"

"No," answered Lenora bitterly. "She has taught me enough of evil, but
my memories of you were too sweet, too pleasant, for me to despise
you, though I do not think you always did right, more than mother."

The stranger groaned, and murmured: "It's true, all true;" while
Lenora continued:

"But where have you been all these years, and how came we to hear of
your death?"

"I have been in St. Louis most of the time, and the report of my death
resulted from the fact that a man bearing my name, and who was also
from Connecticut, died of yellow fever in New Orleans about two years
and a half ago. A friend of mine, observing a notice of his death, and
supposing it to refer to me, forwarded the paper to your mother, who,
though then free from me, undoubtedly felt glad, for she never loved
me, but married me because she thought I had money."

"But how have you lived?" asked Lenora.

"Lived!" he repeated, "I have not lived. I have merely existed.
Gambling and drinking, drinking and gambling, have been the business
of my life, and have reduced me to the miserable wretch whom you see."

"Oh, father, father," cried Lenora, "reform. It is not too late, and
you can yet be saved. Do it for my sake, for, in spite of all your
faults, I love you, and you are my father."

The first words of affection which had greeted his ear for many long
years made the wretched man weep, as he answered: "Lenora, I have
sworn to reform, and I will keep my vow. During one of my drunken
revels, in St. Louis, a dream of home came over me, and when I became
sober I started for Connecticut. There I heard where and what your
mother was. I had no wish ever to meet her again, for though I greatly
erred in my conduct toward her, I think she was always the most to
blame. You I remembered with love, and I longed to see you once more,
to hear again the word 'father,' and know that I was not forgotten. I
came as far as the city, and there fell into temptation. For