"It is wonderful--wonderful! I can hardly believe it yet--that we should never be poor nay more--you, mother, who have gone through so much, and I, who thought I should have to work hard all my days for both of us. And I will work!" cried the boy, as he tossed back his curls and lifted up to his mother a face that in brightness and energy was the very copy of her own, or what hers used to be. "I'll show you, and the earl too, how hard I can work--as hard as if for daily bread. I'll do every thing he wishes me--I'll be his right hand, as he says. I will make a name for myself and him too--mother, you know I am to bear his name?" "Yes, my boy." "And I am glad to bear it. I told him so. He shall be proud of me yet, and you too. Oh, mother, mother, I will never vex you again." And once more his voice broke into sobs, and Helen's too, as she clasped him close, and felt that whatever God had taken away from her, He had given her as much--and more. Mother and son--widowed mother and only son--there is something in the tie unlike all others in the world--not merely in its blessedness, but in its divine compensations. Helen waited till her father had retired, which he often did quite early, for the days were growing too long for him, with whom every one of them was numbered; and he listened to the wonderful news which his grandson told him with the even smile of old age, which nothing now either grieves or surprises. "You'll not be going to live at the Castle, though, not while I am alive, Helen?" was his first uneasy thought. But his daughter soon quieted it, and saw him to his bed, as she did every evening, bidding him good-night, and kissing his placid brow--placid as a child's-- just as if he had been her child instead of her father. Then she took her son's arm--such a stalwart arm now, and walked with him through the bright moonlight, clear as day, to Cairnforth Castle. When they entered the library they found the earl sitting in his usual place, and engaged in his usual evening occupation, which he sometimes called "the hard labor of doing nothing;" for, though he was busy enough in the daytime with a young man he had as secretary--his faithful old friend, Mr. Mearns, having lately died--still, he generally spent his evenings alone. Malcolm lurked within call, in case he wanted any thing; but he rarely did. Often he would pass hours at a time sitting as now, with his feeble hands folded on his lap, his head bent, and his eyes closed, or else open and looking out straight before him-- calmly, but with an infinite yearning in them that would have seemed painful to those who did not know how peaceful his inmost nature was. But at the first sound of his visitors' footsteps he turned round-- that is, he turned his little chair round--and welcomed them heartily and brightly.