had come back to them, and were thankful. John Inglefleld's rough visage
brightened with the glow of his heart, as it grew warm and merry within
him; once or twice, even, he laughed till the room rang again, yet seemed
startled by the echo of his own mirth. The grave young minister became
as frolicsome as a school-boy. Mary, too, the rosebud, forgot that her
twin-blossom had ever been torn from the stem, and trampled in the dust.
And as for Robert Moore, he gazed at Prudence with the bashful
earnestness of love new-born, while she, with sweet maiden coquetry, half
smiled upon and half discouraged him.

In short, it was one of those intervals when sorrow vanishes in its own
depth of shadow, and joy starts forth in transitory brightness. When the
clock struck eight, Prudence poured out her father's customary draught of
herb-tea, which had been steeping by the fireside ever since twilight.

"God bless you, child!" said John Inglefield, as he took the cup from her
hand; "you have made your old father happy again. But we miss your
mother sadly, Prudence, sadly. It seems as if she ought to be here now."

"Now, father, or never," replied Prudence.

It was now the hour for domestic worship. But while the family were
making preparations for this duty, they suddenly perceived that Prudence
had put on her cloak and hood, and was lifting the latch of the door.

"Prudence, Prudence! where are you going?" cried they all, with one
voice.

As Prudence passed out of the door, she turned towards them, and flung
back her hand with a gesture of farewell. But her face was so changed