My story passes to a quiet little study, where, on that same night,
the sisters and the hale old Doctor sat by a cheerful fireside.
Grace was working at her needle. Marion read aloud from a book
before her. The Doctor, in his dressing-gown and slippers, with
his feet spread out upon the warm rug, leaned back in his easy-
chair, and listened to the book, and looked upon his daughters.

They were very beautiful to look upon. Two better faces for a
fireside, never made a fireside bright and sacred. Something of
the difference between them had been softened down in three years'
time; and enthroned upon the clear brow of the younger sister,
looking through her eyes, and thrilling in her voice, was the same
earnest nature that her own motherless youth had ripened in the
elder sister long ago. But she still appeared at once the lovelier
and weaker of the two; still seemed to rest her head upon her
sister's breast, and put her trust in her, and look into her eyes
for counsel and reliance. Those loving eyes, so calm, serene, and
cheerful, as of old.

'"And being in her own home,"' read Marion, from the book; '"her
home made exquisitely dear by these remembrances, she now began to
know that the great trial of her heart must soon come on, and could
not be delayed. O Home, our comforter and friend when others fall
away, to part with whom, at any step between the cradle and the
grave"'-

'Marion, my love!' said Grace.

'Why, Puss!' exclaimed her father, 'what's the matter?'