"Don't you hear him." said the mother, "your father is above in his study." They heard the firm step of the old man as he paced to and fro above them. "All is as it used to be," continued the mother. "That has been his Saturday's walk for the twenty years that I have known him. And Mary is out in the field with our people. I have sent her out because she will not let me do anything. When she is at home she would make me sit in the corner with my hands in my lap, if she had her own way, and do everything herself. We have some new servants now, and I like her to look over them until they have got used to her. How astonished she will be to find you here! But come, I will bring you to your father, just to let him see you, and it will soon be dinner time. Come, he will not be angry at _your_ disturbing him." She led her son, stepping lightly before him, but still holding his hand in hers, up the stairs. Gently she opened the door, beckoned to Clement, and stepping backwards herself, pushed him in. "There he is," she cried; "at last you have him." The old man started as out of deep thought. "Who?" he asked, almost impatiently. Then he looked in his son's face, brightly lighted by a gleam of sun. "Clement," he cried, between astonishment and joy, "you here?" "I longed for home," said the son, and pressed the proffered hand warmly. "I shall stay here for the feast, father, if you have room for me, now that Mary is under your roof." "How can you talk so," interrupted his mother, quickly; "if I had seven sons I could find place for them all. But I will leave you to your father. I must go to the kitchen and the garden, they will have spoilt you in the town, you must be content for love's sake." She was already gone, as the father and son stood silently opposite each other; "I have disturbed you," said Clement, at last; "you were writing your sermon; tell me if I shall go." "You only disturb one who has disturbed himself. Since this morning have I paced to and fro, thinking on my text, but grace was not with me, and the grain hath not brought forth. I have felt strangely; a gloom is over me that I cannot shake off." He went to the little window that looked out towards the church, the way to which lay through the churchyard. There it glowed tranquil with its flowers and glittering crosses in the midday sun. "Come here, Clement," said the old man, gently; "place yourself by me. Do you see that grave to the left, with primroses and monthly roses? You have never seen that one before. Do you know who sleeps there? My good, true friend, the father of our Mary!" He left the window at which his son, deeply struck, remained standing. He paced again to and fro through the chamber, and in the silence they could hear the sand crackle under his steady tread. "Aye!" said the old man, with a deep sigh, "no one knew him as I knew him; no one gained so much from him, no one lost so much with him as I did. What knew he of the world and its wisdom; that is