he was coming, and with childish joy the old man had placed it
beneath his pillow, withdrawing it occasionally for 'Lena to read
again, particularly the passage, "Dear father, I am sorry you are
sick."

"Heaven bless him! I know he's sorry," Mr. Nichols would say. "He
was always a good boy--is a good boy now. Ain't he, Martha?"

And mother-like, Mrs. Nichols would answer, "Yes," forcing back the
while the tears which would start when she thought how long the "good
boy" had neglected them, eighteen years having elapsed since he had
crossed the threshold of his home.

With his hand plighted to one of the village maidens, he had left
Oakland to seek his fortune, going first to New York, then to Ohio,
and finally wending his way southward, to Kentucky. Here he
remained, readily falling into the luxurious habits of those around
him, and gradually forgetting the low-roofed farmhouse far away to
the northward, where dwelt a gray-haired pair and a beautiful young
girl, his parents and his sister. She to whom his vows were plighted
was neither graceful nor cultivated, and when, occasionally, her
tall, spare figure and uncouth manners arose before him, in contrast
with the fair forms around him, he smiled derisively at the thoughts
of making her his wife.

About this time there came from New Orleans a wealthy invalid, with
his only daughter Matilda. She was a proud haughty girl, whose
disposition, naturally unamiable, was rendered still worse by a
disappointment from which she was suffering. Accidentally Mr.
Richards, her father, made the acquaintance of John Nichols,