to comfort her in the great thunderstorm in auld lang-syne. She felt
herself come at length to the shelter and repose for which her heart
had so long yearned, in spite of her efforts, and as if the world had
nothing more to offer of peace or joy.

'Oh, Mary, how I have wanted you! You believe in me now!'

'I am sure mamma would!' murmured Mary.

He could have poured forth a torrent of affection, but the suspicion
of a footstep made her start from him; and the next moment she was
herself, glowing, indeed, and half crying with happiness, but alarmed
at her own agitation, and struggling to resume her common-place
manner.

'There's your father not had a morsel of breakfast!' she exclaimed,
hurrying back to her teacups, whose ringing betrayed her trembling
hand. 'Call him, Louis.'

'Must I go?' said Louis, coming to assist in a manner that threatened
deluge and destruction.

'Oh yes, go! I shall be able to speak to you when you come back.'

He had only to go into the verandah. His father was watching at the
library window, and they wrung each other's hand in gladness beyond
utterance.

Mary had seated herself in the solid stately chair, with the whole
entrenchment of tea equipage before her. They knew it signified that