een answered in the same
tone; but neither he nor we had as yet mentioned the names of Edwin or
Louise.

They knew he was come home; but how and where the first momentous
meeting should take place we left entirely to chance, or, more rightly
speaking, to Providence.

So it happened thus. Guy was sitting quietly on the sofa at his
mother's feet, and his father and he were planning together in what way
could best be celebrated, by our school-children, tenants, and
work-people, an event which we took a great interest in, though not
greater than in this year was taken by all classes throughout the
kingdom--the day fixed for the abolition of Negro Slavery in our
Colonies--the 1st of August, 1834. He sat in an attitude that reminded
me of his boyish lounging ways; the picture of content; though a stream
of sunshine pouring in upon his head, through the closed Venetian
blind, showed many a deep line of care on his forehead, and more than
one silver thread among his brown hair.

In a pause--during which no one exactly liked to ask what we were all
thinking about--there came a little tap at the door, and a little voice
outside.

"Please, me want to come in."

Maud jumped up to refuse admission; but Mr. Halifax forbade her, and
himself went and opened the door. A little child stood there--a little
girl of three years old.

Apparently guessing who she was, Guy rose up hastily, and sat down in
his place again.

"Come in, little maid," said the father; "come in, and tell us what you
want."

"Me want to see Grannie and Uncle Guy."

Guy started, but still he kept his seat. The mother took her
grandchild in her feeble arms, and kissed her, saying softly,

"There--that is Uncle Guy. Go and speak to him."

And then, touching his knees, Guy felt the tiny, fearless hand. He
turned round, and looked at the little thing, reluctantly,
inquisitively. Still he did not speak to or touch her.

"Are you Uncle Guy?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you kiss me? Everybody kisses me," said everybody's pet;
neither frightened nor shy; never dreaming of a repulse.

Nor did she find it. Her little fingers were suffered to cling round
the tightly-closed hand.

"What is your name, my dear?"

"Louise--mamma's little Louise."

Guy put back the curls, and gazed long and wistfully into the childish
face, where the inherited beauty was repeated line for line. But
softened, spiritualised, as, years after its burial, some ghost of a
man's