Happy, happy time--sunshiny summer, peaceful winter--we marked neither
as they passed; but now we hold both--in a sacredness inexpressible--a
foretaste of that Land where there is neither summer nor winter,
neither days nor years.

The first break in our repose came early in the new year. There had
been no Christmas letter from Guy, and he never once in all his
wanderings had missed writing home at Christmas time. When the usual
monthly mail came in, and no word from him--a second month, and yet
nothing, we began to wonder about his omission less openly--to cease
scolding him for his carelessness. Though over and over again we still
eagerly brought up instances of the latter--"Guy is such a thoughtless
boy about his correspondence."

Gradually, as his mother's cheek grew paler, and his father more
anxious-eyed, more compulsorily cheerful, we gave up discussing
publicly the many excellent reasons why no letters should come from
Guy. We had written, as usual, by every mail. By the last--by the
March mail, I saw that in addition to the usual packet for Mr. Guy
Halifax--his father, taking another precautionary measure, had written
in business form to "Messrs. Guy Halifax and Co." Guy had always,
"just like his carelessness!" omitted to give the name of his partner;
but addressed thus, in case of any sudden journey or illness of Guy's,
the partner, whoever he was, would be sure to write.

In May--nay, it was on May day, I remember, for we were down in the
mill-meadows with Louise and her little ones going a-maying--there came
in the American mail.

It brought a large packet--all our letters of this year sent back
again, directed in a strange hand, to "John Halifax, Esquire,
Beechwood," with the annotation, "By Mr. Guy Halifax's desire."

Among the rest--though the sickening sight of them had blinded even his
mother at first, so that her eye did not catch it, was one that
explained--most satisfactorily explained, we said--the reason they were
thus returned. It was a few lines from Guy himself, stating that
unexpected good fortune had made him determine to come home at once.
If circumstances thwarted this intention, he would write without fail;
otherwise he should most likely sail by an American merchantman--the
"Stars-and-Stripes."

"Then he is coming home. On his way home!"

And the mother, as with one shaking hand she held fast the letter, with
the other steadied herself by the rail of John's desk--I gue