times
when I feel that one spoken word would give such courage to my heart
that I could go on and hope." Could she speak that word to him? was his
ever present thought. He resolved to try, and accordingly wrote her a
long, long letter. Full of the selfishness of one who loved, he told
her the whole story of his journey, and the plan that led to it. "I
have patience enough for slow toil," said he, "but I do not seek for the
success it brings. I wanted the quick prosperity that one great effort
might secure, and time afterwards to enjoy the humble fortune thus
acquired. With merely enough for life, Clara, I meant to ask you to
share it. Who are as friendlessly alone as we are? Who are so bereft
of what is called home? Say, have you a heart to give me,--when I can
claim it,--and will you give it? I am low and wretched because I feel
unloved. Tell me this is not so, and in the goal before me hope and
energy will come back to me." Broken and scarce coherent at times,
his letter revealed one who loved her ardently, and who wanted but her
pledge to feel himself happy. He pressed eagerly to know of her own
life,--what it was, and whether she was contented. Had she learned
anything of the mystery that surrounded her family, or could she give
him the slightest clew by which he could aid her in the search? He
entreated of her to write to him, even though her letter should not be
the confirmation of all he wished and prayed for.

The very fact of his having written this to Clara seemed to rally his
spirits. It was at least a pledge to his own heart. He had placed a goal
before him, and a hope.

"I am glad to see you look cheerier," said Quackinboss, as they sat
talking over their plans. "The hardest load a man ever carried is a
heavy heart, and it's as true as my name's Shaver, that one gets into
the habit of repinin' and seein' all things black jest as one falls
into any other evil habit. Old Grip Quackinboss said, one day, to Mr.
Jefferson, 'Yes, sir,' says he, 'always hearty, sir,--always cheery.
There 's an old lady as sweeps the crossin' in our street, and I give
her a quarter-dollar to fret for me, for it's a thing I've sworn never
to do for myself.'"

"Well," said Layton, gayly, "you 'll see I 've turned over a new leaf;
and whatever other thoughts you shall find in me, causeless depression
shall not be of the number."

"All right, sir; that's my own platform. Now here's your instructions,
for I 'm a-goin'. I start at