It was a cold, cheerless day in December; one of those days when one hugs close to the fire-side, and when even a glance at the dull, sombrous out-of-door atmosphere makes, or ought to make, one thankful for the blessings of a pleasant fire, to say nothing of the society of a friend, or the solace of a book. With all these comforts combined, the family of Mr. Sullivan had assembled in the breakfast parlor. There was the grate, heaped to the topmost bar of the polished steel, with glowing anthracite; the soft carpet of warm and gorgeous hues; luxuriant plants of foreign climes, half hiding the cages of various little songsters, whose merry notes breathed of spring-time and shady groves; and the face of grim winter shut out by rich, silken folds of crimson drapery. The pleasant morning meal was already passed, and the breakfast things removed, with the exception of the beautiful coffee-set of Sevre’s china, which Mrs. Sullivan was so old-fashioned as to take charge of herself; in preference to trusting it with servants. Seated at the head of the table, a snowy napkin in her hand, she was now engaged in this domestic office. Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Danvers (the husband of Ruth) had just gone into the study, to talk over some business affairs. Ruth had taken the morning paper, and upon a low ottoman by the side of her mother, was reading the news of the day—now to herself, or, as she found a paragraph of peculiar interest, aloud for the general entertainment. Agatha was reclining upon the sofa, and nestling by her side was a beautiful boy of two years old, playing bo-peep through the long, sunny curls of “Aunt Gatty,” his merry little shouts, and infantile prattle, quite overpowering ma’ma’s news. “Why what can this mean?” suddenly exclaimed Ruth; “do hear this, ma’ma. ‘If the former widow of Mr. John Oakly (the name of her present husband unknown) be still living, or the children of said John Oakly, they are requested to call at No. 18 —— street, and inquire for A. O., or to forward a note to the same address, stating where they may be found.’ What can it mean, ma’ma?” Without answering, Mrs. Sullivan rose from her chair; she trembled in every limb, and her countenance was deadly pale. “Ruth, dearest,” said she, “ring the bell, and order the carriage immediately to the door.” “Ma’ma, you surely will not go out alone,” said Ruth. “Yes, alone! do not disturb your father,” answered Mrs. Sullivan; “alone must I meet this trial. My dear girls,” she continued, “ask me no questions. God knows what I am about to learn, whether tidings of joy or sorrow; but I trust all may be explained when I return.” In a few moments the carriage was at the door, and tenderly embracing Ruth and Agatha, she departed upon her anxious errand.