[Continued]


CHAPTER XIX.


A slow and weary walk had Mr. Lindsay from the station to his house. It
was after sunset, dark and cold, as he turned in at the gate. The house
was dimly lighted, and no one save the Newfoundland dog came to greet
him at the door. He did not hear his daughter singing as she was
accustomed at evening. There were no pleasant voices, no light and
cheerful steps in the rooms. All was silence. The ill news had preceded
him. His wife without a word fell on his bosom and wept. Clara kept her
seat, trying in vain, while her lip quivered and her eyes dimmed, to fix
her attention upon the magazine she had held rather than read. At length
Mr. Lindsay led his wife to the sofa and sat beside her, holding
her hand with a tenderness that was as soothing as it was uncommon.
Prosperity had not hardened his heart, but business had preoccupied it;
though his manner had been kind, his family had rarely seen in him any
evidence of feeling.

Misfortune had now brought back the rule of his better nature, and the
routine life he had led was at an end.

"My dear wife, what I have most dreaded in this crash is the pain, the
anxiety, and the possible discomfort it would bring to you and to Clara.
For myself I care nothing. It is a hard trial, but I shall conform to
our altered circumstances cheerfully."

"And so shall we, father," said Clara. "We shall be happy with you