the grave was between Prudence and herself, though they seemed so near
each other in the light of their father's hearth, where they had grown up
together. Meanwhile Prudence threw her eyes around the room, in search
of one who had not yet bidden her welcome. He had withdrawn from his
seat by the fireside, and was standing near the door, with his face
averted, so that his features could be discerned only by the flickering
shadow of the profile upon the wall. But Prudence called to him, in a
cheerful and kindly tone:--

"Come, Robert," said she, "won't you shake hands with your old friend?"

Robert Moore held back for a moment, but affection struggled powerfully,
and overcame his pride and resentment; he rushed towards Prudence, seized
her hand, and pressed it to his bosom.

"There, there, Robert!" said she, smiling sadly, as she withdrew her
hand, "you must not give me too warm a welcome."

And now, having exchanged greetings with each member of the family,
Prudence again seated herself in the chair at John Inglefield's right
hand. She was naturally a girl of quick and tender sensibilities,
gladsome in her general mood, but with a bewitching pathos interfused
among her merriest words and deeds. It was remarked of her, too, that
she had a faculty, even from childhood, of throwing her own feelings,
like a spell, over her companions. Such as she had been in her days of
innocence, so did she appear this evening. Her friends, in the surprise
and bewilderment of her return, almost forgot that she had ever left
them, or that she had forfeited any of her claims to their affection. In
the morning, perhaps, they might have looked at her with altered eyes,
but by the Thanksgiving fireside they felt only that their own Prudence