Year: 1871

In richly furnished parlor, it
crimson curtains closely drawn t.
shut out the piercing winter night
before glowing bed of anthracite
sat Maurice Greenwood, merchant
Somewhat more than fifty years hat
written their record of his life, bu
his hair was thiekly sprinkled will
gray, and his face, with its deep Sc
hazel eyes, and compressed mouth
seemed like that of one much older
That face was one where will wa,
craven on every feature, as with pei
of iron and diamond point. Bu
some regret, some lasting shad'
There was, about brow, and mouth
and eyes, and Maurice Greenwood
was not happy. Wealth he had, an(
every outward means of happiness
save dear faces by his fireside, ant
tones of home affection. These ht
had not; in his palace-like home M
lived alone, His housekeeper wa.
faithful to her duty; and she only
of all the world, felt an interest il
the lonely man. She had been hi.
boyhood's nurse, and all she could
do for his comfort was done, but she
could not silence the thoughts that
oppressed him, the aching want in
his life. All, there was shadow or
Maurice Greenwood's hearth and
heart; one, too, of his own making


His wife slept beneath the green
shades of Laurel Hill; and his only
daughter, his beautiful, gentle, true
hearted Annie, was no longer at his
side. She had kept her faith with
the lover who lacked only gold, and
for this he had banished her from
his home, and tried to drive heI
Image from his thoughts. But that
he could not do. The sight of q
child climbing a fathers knee, OF
clinging to his hand, always gave
him thrill of pain, for it brought
back days long past. A gleeful
voice, carrolling old ballads, never
failed to wake echoes in his soul he
dreaded to hear. Every fair young
face he met in the street seemed to
look at him with reproachful eyes.
He saw his wife growing paler and
thinner day by day, and, though no
word of complaint came from her
lips, he knew his own hand had
wrought this, yet pride held him in
its iron sway; and not till it was toe
late; not till the suffering mother
lay on that bed from which she
would rise only on the wing of an
immortal life, did his will bend.
Then, in the loneliness and sorrow
that followed, realizing, for the first
time, all that the feeble woman, no
longer his, had been to him, his very
soul was bowed; regret awoke that
would not be silenced, and he would
have given his whole fortune to un-
do what he had done. He knew not
where Annie was; whether, even,
she were living or not.


Time passed on, and he became
accustomed to his lonely life; yet
the regret lie could not Danish, en-
bittered every quiet hour. At times
when, as now, he sat alone by his
deserted fireside, the thought of his
daughter grew so vivid that she
seemed to stand beside him. The
white brow, the radiant, wavy hair
of golden brown, were the same;
but the blue eyes, with a sad, re-
proachful look, gazed steadily into
his own. Once or twice the illusion
had been so strong that involun-
tarily he stretched his arms toward
her and called her name, and his
housekeeper, perhaps coming in
with his tea-tray, had found him
nearly fainting, or, as he always
answered, ''tired."


81 declare" she said to an in
innate friend, "if he would get his
daughter home, with her husband,
and treat her like a father, how hap
py the man might be! Likely en-
Ough they've little children that
would make the old house alive
again. and it's more of tomb than
anything else. But, dear me! there's
no knowing if she's alive; wonder
if he knows; never can ask him; it
won't do to mention her name; just
set him against her still more, if
that could be; but / wish l knew.
To think ! Graded heron my breast,
same as 1 did him before her, and
1 never thought to see my boy like
this; just making himself wretched
for the sake of worrying his own
flesh and blood"


Ten years to-day since Miriam
left me-" said Maurice Greenwood
to himself.


1t was a mild, sunny spring morn
ing, and opening leaf-buds and a
scent of garden violets, even in the
busy city, brought glad tidings of
that which should be. A sudden
impulse came over him to visit Mir
iam's grave, and he concluded to
ride out to Laurel Hill that after
noon.


1t was lovely, shaded spot near
the river, and the early flowers were
beginning to bloom. Maurice
Greenwood stood there alone in the
still glow of sunlight that wrapped
the ''city of the silent" as in Gods
great peace; and in those moments
glimpse of a higher, better life
dawned on his oul. The thought
thrilled him, as never before, how
soon he, too, must lie down, his heart
as still as those beneath the grass,
his hand powerless to change aught
he had done in life. And o great
sorrow for the past came over him.
But where was Annie? Could he
even now make any reparation for
the cruel wrong he had done his own
child?


What startled him? What made
the strong man tremble in every
nerve? For the moment, it seemed
to him y vision. A young girl
passed with basket of flowers on
her arm. He had only a glimpse of
her face, but the golden brown hair
beneath the little sun-hat, the form,
and step, and bearing were Annies
own! A great hunger sprang up in
his heart, and he could not resist
the impulse to follow her. He did
so, silently, slowly, not to attract