"Yes, mamma, many."

"Do you know that I am very old, Emma, very old indeed, considering what
I have suffered, such a life of sorrow and ill health is at least equal
to thirty years added to my life."

"You may have deceived yourself, aunt," said the other maiden; "at all
events, you cannot count upon life as certain, for the strongest often
go first, while those who seem much more likely to fall, by care, as
often live in peace and happiness."

"But I lead no life of peace and happiness, while Henry Bradley is not
here; besides, my life might be passed without me seeing him again."

"It is now two years since he was here last," said the old man,

"This night two years was the night on which he left."

"This night two years?"

"Yes."

"It was this night two years," said one of the servant men, "because old
Dame Poutlet had twins on that night."

"A memorable circumstance."

"And one died at a twelvemonth old," said the man; "and she had a dream
which foretold the event."

"Ay, ay."

"Yes, and moreover she's had the same dream again last Wednesday was a
week," said the man.

"And lost the other twin?"

"Yes sir, this morning."

"Omens multiply," said the aged man; "I would that it would seem to
indicate the return of Henry to his home."

"I wonder where he can have gone to, or what he could have done all this
time; probably he may not be in the land of the living."

"Poor Henry," said Emma.

"Alas, poor boy! We may never see him again--it was a mistaken act of
his, and yet he knew not otherwise how to act or escape his father's
displeasure."

"Say no more--say no more upon that subject; I dare not listen to it.
God knows I know quite enough," said Mr. Bradley; "I knew not he would
have taken my words so to heart as he did."

"Why," said the old woman, "he thought you meant what you said."

There was a long pause, during which all gazed at the blazing fire,
seemingly wrapt in their own meditation.

Henry Bradley, the son of the apparently aged couple, had left that day
two years, and wherefore had he left the home of his childhood?
wherefore had he, the heir to large estates, done this?

He had dared to love without his father's leave, and had refused the
offer his father made him of marrying a young lady whom he had chosen
for him, but whom he could not love.

It was as much a matter of surprise to the father that the son should
refuse, as it was to the son that his father should contem