compel the cynical man of the world to feel its truth.

Mr. Walton's eyes were turned so often and wistfully on his face that
Gregory was embarrassed.

"I was looking for my friend," said the old gentleman, in a husky
voice, turning hastily away to hide his feeling. "You strongly remind
me of him; and yet--" But he never finished the sentence.

Gregory well understood the "and yet," and in bitterness of soul
remembered that his father had been a good man, but that the impress
of goodness could not rest on his face.

He had now grown very weary, and gave evidence of it.

"Mr. Gregory, you look ill," said Miss Walton, hastily.

"I am not well," he said, "and have not been for a long time. Perhaps
I am going beyond my strength to-day."

In a moment they were all solicitude. The driver, who then appeared
according to his instructions, was posted back to the hotel for Mr.
Gregory's luggage, Mr. Walton saying, with hearty emphasis that
removed every scruple, "This must be your home, sir, as long as you
can remain with us, as truly as ever it was."

A little later he found himself in the "spare room," on whose state he
had rarely intruded when a boy. Jeff, the colored man, had kindled a
cheery wood fire on the ample hearth, and, too exhausted even to
think, Gregory sank back in a great easy-chair with the blessed sense