“And falling on my weary brain, Like a fast falling shower, The dreams of youth came back again; Low lispings of the summer rain, Dropping on the ripen’d grain, As once upon the flower.” He told her of his happy progress, from that first dawning of hope to the full joy of steadfast faith. He ran over the history of the past year, in which from day to day he had looked forward to this meeting; and he told with what joy he had slowly added coin to coin, until he had saved a sufficient sum to carry him home. Then, when he had finished, the sister and brother mingled their thanksgivings and happiness together, and Christian’s heart swelled full and overbrimming: she could have seated herself upon the floor, like Ailie, and poured out her joy as artlessly. But it is Halbert’s turn now to ask questions. When will little Mary be home? how long she stays. Halbert wearies to see his little sister, but he is bidden remember that she is not little now, and Christian sighs, and the dark cloud, that she fears is hanging over Mary’s fate, throws somewhat of its premonitory gloom upon her heart and face. Halbert, unnoticing this, is going about the room, almost like a boy, looking lovingly at its well-remembered corners, and at the chairs and tables, at the books, and last his eye falls on a card lying in a little basket, and he starts as if he had encountered a serpent, and his eye flashes as he suddenly cries out, almost sternly, as he lifts it and reads the name. “Christian, what is this--what means this? Mr. Walter Forsyth a visitor of yours; it cannot be. Tell me, Christian, what does it mean?” “It is Mr. Forsyth’s card,” said Christian gravely; “an acquaintance, I am afraid I must say a _friend_ of ours. Indeed, Halbert, now that you are home with us again, this is my only grief. I fear we shall have to give our little Mary into his keeping, and he is not worthy of her.” Halbert is calmed by his long trial, but his natural impetuosity is not entirely overcome, and he starts up in sudden excitement and disorder. “Walter Forsyth the husband of my sister Mary! Walter Forsyth, the infidel, the profligate; better, Christian, better a thousand times, that we should lay her head in the grave, great trial as that would be, and much agony as it would cause us all, than permit her to unite herself with such a reptile.” “Halbert,” said Christian, “the name misleads you; this cannot be the man--the Forsyth who wrought you so much unhappiness and harm, and has caused us all such great grief and sorrow; he must be much older, and altogether a different person. This one is not even a scoffer, at least so far as I have seen.”