kind, he would bury himself, and forget all the bright and happy
days which had passed. He left his friends without giving them any
clew to his whereabouts, and with faithful old Hagar, who persisted in
following him, took up his abode by the sea. But do you think his
sorrow lessened? Do you think he found peace and happiness again? He
carried his hard and bitter heart with him, and there was no happiness
to be found by the sea. One year after another rolled away until the
three were gone, and still he was wandering along his own thorny path,
bowed with his sorrow, sighing and lamenting for the bright form which
had left him, and still deaf to its whisper, "Find _Him_, and come up
too." He walked on the sands, lonely and desolate; he paced about the
great rooms of the stone house, oppressed and heavy-hearted; he shut
himself up in his library and pored over books in vain. His sorrow
clung to him, followed him everywhere; his heart was stubborn and
bitter and rebellious. Perhaps he despaired of ever losing the
burden, for one day he brought out a portrait, wrapped and swathed
with great care, and, tearing all the veilings off, gazed once more on
the sainted face which he had not looked upon for three long and heavy
years. He did not hide it again, but hung it upon his library wall,
where the tender face and calm and loving eyes looked down and almost
melted him to tears.

He wondered how he could have kept it veiled and hidden so long. He
wondered if those three years had not been spent in vain, unless it
were to learn that he could not crush out his sweet memories if he
tried.

He sank down into his chair as he thought of this, and going back over
the three past dreary years, remembered what a weary blank they were,
thought, with a heavy sigh, what a shipwreck his life had been, and
how he was now floating about without rudder or compass or anchor,
merely a drifting wreck. And as he sits there in the sunshine which
streams through the wide, high old window, we will see him for the
first time.

CHAPTER II.

LETTERS.

Richard Trafford was a man of forty; but his hair was tinged with
gray, and grief and wretchedness had worn heavy lines in his face. As
he sat in the library this September afternoon, looking up at the
portrait on the wall, he seemed almost an old man. The room was wide
and high, with tall oaken bookcases at either end. Two great windows,
before one of which he sat, looked out upon the s