"Dear Nelly!" and your arm clasps her more fondly. There is a cricket in the corner of the room, chirping very loudly. It seems as if nothing else were living,--only Nelly, Clarence, and the noisy cricket. Your eye on the chair where she used to sit; it is drawn up with the same care as ever beside the fire. "I am _so_ glad to see you, Clarence," says Nelly, recovering herself; there is a sweet, sad smile now And sitting there beside you, she tells you of it all,--of the day, and of the hour,--and how she looked,--and of her last prayer, and how happy she was. "And did she leave no message for me, Nelly?" "Not to forget us, Clarence; but you could not!" "Thank you, Nelly. And was there nothing else?" "Yes, Clarence,--to meet her one day!" You only press her hand. Presently your father comes in: he greets you with far more than his usual cordiality. He keeps your hand a long time, looking quietly in your face, as if he were reading traces of some resemblance that had never struck him before. The father is one of those calm, impassive men, who shows little upon the surface, and whose feelings you have always thought cold. But now there is a tremulousness in his tones that you never remember observing before. He seems conscious of it himself, and forbears talking. He goes to his old seat, and after gazing at you a little while with the same steadfastness as at first, leans forward, and buries his face in his hands. From that very moment you feel a sympathy and a love for him, that you have never known until then. And in after-years, when suffering or trial come over you, and when your thoughts fly as to a refuge to that shattered home, you will recall that stooping image of the father,--with his head bowed, and from time to time trembling convulsively with grief,--and feel that there remains yet by the household fires a heart of kindred love and of kindred sorrow! Nelly steals away from you gently, and stepping across the room, lays her hand upon his shoulder with a touch that says, as plainly as words could say it,--"We are here, father!" And he rouses himself,--passes his arm around her,--looks in her face fondly,--draws her to him, and prints a kiss upon her forehead. "Nelly, we must love each other now more than ever." Nelly's lips tremble, but she cannot answer; a tear or two go stealing down her cheek. You approach them; and your father takes your hand again with a firm grasp,--looks at you thoughtfully,--drops his eyes upon the fire, and for a moment there is a pause;--"We are quite alone now, my boy!" ----It is a Broken Home! VI. _Family Confidence._