"Let me see, where did you say he died?" said Lenora.

"In New Orleans, with yellow fever, or black measles, or smallpox, or
something," Mrs. Hamilton replied, "but mercy's sake! can't you choose
a better subject to talk about? What made you think of him? He's been
haunting me all day, and I feel kind of nervous and want to look over
my shoulder whenever I am alone."

Lenora made no further remark until after tea, when she announced her
intention of going to the village.

"Come back early, for I don't feel like staying alone," said her
mother.

The sun had set when Lenora left the village, and by the time she
reached home it was wholly dark. As she entered the garden the outline
of a figure; sitting on a bench at its further extremity, made her
stop for a moment, but thinking to herself, "I expected it, and why
should I be afraid?" she walked on fearlessly, until the person,
roused by the sound of her footsteps, started up, and turning toward
her, said half-aloud:

"Lenora, is it you?"

Quickly she sprang forward, and soon one hand of the beggar was
clasped in hers, while the other rested upon her head, as he said,
"Lenora, my child, my daughter, you do not hate me?"

"Hate you, father?" she answered, "never, never."