careful about descending from the lofty heights of
logic to the common level of impulse and affection.
Many years before, Warwick, when a lad of eighteen,
had shaken the dust of the town from his feet,
and with it, he fondly thought, the blight of his
inheritance, and had achieved elsewhere a worthy
career. But during all these years of absence he
had cherished a tender feeling for his mother, and
now again found himself in her house, amid the
familiar surroundings of his childhood. His visit
had brought joy to his mother's heart, and was
now to bring its shrouded companion, sorrow. His
mother had lived her life, for good or ill. A wider
door was open to his sister--her mother must not
bar the entrance.

"She may go," the mother repeated sadly, drying
her tears. "I'll give her up for her good."

"The table 's ready, mamma," said Rena, coming
to the door.

The lunch was spread in the kitchen, a large
unplastered room at the rear, with a wide fireplace at
one end. Only yesterday, it seemed to Warwick,
he had sprawled upon the hearth, turning sweet
potatoes before the fire, or roasting groundpeas in
the ashes; or, more often, reading, by the light of
a blazing pine-knot or lump of resin, some volume
from the bookcase in the hall. From Bulwer's