death had snatched from him since the previous
Thanksgiving. With a feeling that few would have looked for in his
rough nature, the bereaved husband had himself set the chair in its
place next his own; and often did his eye glance hitherward, as if he
deemed it possible that the cold grave might send back its tenant to
the cheerful fireside, at least for that one evening. Thus did he
cherish the grief that was dear to him. But there was another grief
which he would fain have torn from his heart; or, since that could
never be, have buried it too deep for others to behold, or for his own
remembrance. Within the past year another member of his household had
gone from him, but not to the grave. Yet they kept no vacant chair for
her.

While John Inglefield and his family were sitting round the hearth
with the shadows dancing behind them on the wall, the outer door was
opened, and a light footstep came along the passage. The latch of the
inner door was lifted by some familiar hand, and a young girl came in,
wearing a cloak and hood, which she took off and laid on the table
beneath the looking-glass. Then, after gazing a moment at the fireside
circle, she approached, and took the seat at John Inglefield's right
hand, as if it had been reserved on purpose for her.

"Here I am, at last, father," said she. "You ate your Thanksgiving
dinner without me, but I have come back to spend the evening with
you."

Yes, it was Prudence Inglefield. She wore the same neat and maidenly
attire which she had been accustomed to put on when the household work
was over for the day, and her hair was parted from her brow in the
simple and modest fashion that became her best of all. If her cheek
might otherwise have been pale, yet the glow of the fire suffused it
with a healthful bloom. If she had spent the many months of her
absence in guilt and infamy, yet they seemed to have left no traces on
her gentle aspect. She could not have looked less altered had she
merely stepped away from her father's fireside for half an hour, and
returned while the blaze was quivering upward from the same brands
that were burning at her departure. And to John Inglefield she was the
very image of his buried wife, such as he remembered on the first
Thanksgiving which they had passed under their own roof. Therefore,
though naturally a stern and rugged man, he could not speak unkindly
to his sinful child, nor yet could he take her to his bosom.

"You are welcome home,