Prudence," said he, glancing sideways at her,
and his voice faltered. "Your mother would have rejoiced to see you,
but she has been gone from us these four months."

"I know, father, I know it," replied Prudence quickly. "And yet, when
I first came in, my eyes were so dazzled by the firelight that she
seemed to be sitting in this very chair!"

By this time, the other members of the family had begun to recover
from their surprise, and became sensible that it was no ghost from the
grave, nor vision of their vivid recollections, but Prudence, her own
self. Her brother was the next that greeted her. He advanced and held
out his hand affectionately, as a brother should; yet not entirely
like a brother, for, with all his kindness, he was still a clergyman
and speaking to a child of sin.

"Sister Prudence," said he, earnestly, "I rejoice that a merciful
Providence hath turned your steps homeward in time for me to bid you a
last farewell. In a few weeks, sister, I am to sail as a missionary to
the far islands of the Pacific. There is not one of these beloved
faces that I shall ever hope to behold again on this earth. Oh, may I
see all of them--yours and all--beyond the grave!"

A shadow flitted across the girl's countenance.

"The grave is very dark, brother," answered she, withdrawing her hand
somewhat hastily from his grasp. "You must look your last at me by the
light of this fire."

While this was passing, the twin girl--the rosebud that had grown on
the same stem with the castaway--stood gazing at her sister, longing
to fling herself upon her bosom, so that the tendrils of their hearts
might intertwine again. At first she was restrained by mingled grief
and shame, and by a dread that Prudence was too much changed to
respond to her affection, or that her own purity would be felt as a
reproach by the lost one. But, as she listened to the familiar voice,
while the face grew more and more familiar, she forgot everything save
that Prudence had come back. Springing forward she would have clasped
her in a close embrace. At that very instant, however, Prudence
started from her chair and held out both her hands with a warning
gesture.

"No, Mary, no, my sister," cried she, "do not you touch me! Your bosom
must not be pressed to mine!"

Mary shuddered and stood still, for she felt that something darker
than the grave was between Prudence and herself, though they seemed so
near each other in the light of their father's heart