chase for the empty
shadow of a name--gather her baby to her bosom, and die, finding
under an humble cenotaph the peace that this world denied her?

An intolerable yearning for the sight of her child, for the sound of
her voice, broke over her like some irresistible wave bearing away
the vehement protests of policy, the sterner barriers of vindictive
purpose, and with a long shivering moan she clasped her hands and
shut her eyes.

Impatiently the old man and his wife watched her countenance,
confident that the decision would not long be delayed, trusting that
the result would be a compliance with their wishes. But hope began to
fade as they noticed the gradual compression of her pale sorrowful
mouth,--the slow gathering of the brows that met in a heavy
frown,--the tightening of the clenched fingers,--the greyish shadow
that settled down on the face where renunciation was very legibly
written. The temptation had been fierce, but she put it aside, after
bitter struggles to hush the wail of maternal longing; and before she
spoke the two friends looked at each other and sighed.

Lifting her marble eyelids that seemed so heavy with their sweeping
brown lashes, the invalid raised herself on one elbow, and said
mournfully:

"Not yet,--oh! not yet. I cannot give up the fight without one more
struggle, even if it should prove that of death to me. I must not
return to America until I win what I came for; I will not. But, my
friends,--for such I consider you, such you have proved,--I will not
selfishly prolong your exile; will not exact the sacrifice of your
dearest wishes. Go back home at once, and enjoy in peace the old age
that deserves to be so happy. I am going to Italy, hoping to regain
my health,--possibly to die; but still I shall go. How long I may be
detained, I know not, but meanwhile you shall return to those you
love."

"Idle words--all idle words; not worth the waste of your breath.
Phoebe and I are homesick,--we do not deny it, and we are sorry you
can't see things as we do; but since that night when I stumbled over
you in the snow, and carried you to my own hearth, you have been to
Phoebe and me--as the child we lost; and unless you are ready to go
home with us, we stay here. You know we never will forsake you,
especially now. Hush,--don't speak, Phoebe. Come away, wife; she is
crying like a tired child. I never saw her give way like that before.
It will do her good. Every tear softens the spasms that wring