dust and smooth
and air and sweep. She kept all things in their places just as they used
to be in the former time, but she could not give to the room the air of
life which once it had, and, do what she would, it looked deserted
always--empty--and dreary.

On the chimney-piece were ranged a row of toys, plaster cats, barking
dogs, a Noah's ark, and an enormous woolly lamb. This last struck Dick
with admiration. He stood on tip-toe with his hands clasped behind his
back to examine it.

"Oh, dear," he sighed, "I wiss I had that lamb." Then he gave a jump,
for close to him, in a small chair, he saw what seemed to be a little
girl, staring straight at him.

It was a big, beautiful doll, in a dress of faded pink, and a pink hat
and feather. Dick had never seen such a fine lady before; she quite
fascinated him. He leaned gently forward and touched the waxen hand. It
was cold and clammy; Dick did not like the feel, and retreated. The
unwinking eyes of the doll followed him as he sidled away, and made him
uncomfortable.

In the opposite room the old man still sat with his letter before him.
The letter was from the girl who once played with the big doll and slept
in the smooth white bed. She was not a child now. Years before she had
left her father's house against his will, and in company with a person
he did not like. He had said then that he should never forgive her, and
till now she had not asked to be forgiven. It was a long time since he
had known any thing about her. Nobody ever mentioned her name in his
hearing, not even the old housekeeper who loved her still, and never
went to bed without praying that Miss Ellen might one day come back. Now
Ellen had written to her father. The letter lay on the table.

"I was wrong," she wrote, "but I have been punished. We have suffered
much. My husband is dead. I will not speak of him, for I know that his
name will anger you; but, father, I am alone, ill, and very poor. Can
you not forgive me now? Do not think of me as the wild, reckless girl
who disobeyed you and brought sorrow to your life. I am a weary,
sorrowful woman, longing, above all other things, to be pardoned before
I die,--to come home again to the house where all my happy years were
spent. Let me come, father. My little Hester, named after our dear
nurse, mine and Harry's, is a child whom you would love. She is like me
as I used to be, but far gentler and sweeter than I ever was. Let me put
her in your arms. Let me