After passing through so many streets that it seemed they must have nearly cleared the city, the carriage turned into a narrow street, or rather lane, and stopped at No. 18, a small two story wooden building. Mrs. Sullivan alighted and rang the bell. The door was opened by a little servant-girl, to whom she handed a card, on which she had written with a trembling hand, “A person wishes to speak with A. O.” In a few moments the girl returned and ushered her up stairs into a small parlor. Her fortitude now nearly forsook her, and it was with difficulty she could support herself to a chair. As soon as she could command herself she looked around to see if she could detect aught which might speak to her of her child. Upon the table on which she leaned were books. She took up one, and turned to the title-page; in a pretty Italian hand was traced “Louisa Oakly.” Several beautiful drawings also attracted her eye—they, too, bore the name of “Louisa Oakly.” But before she had time to indulge in the blissful hopes this caused her, the door opened, and Mr. Oakly, with an agitation nearly equal to her own, entered the room. Many years had flown since they met, and time on both had laid his withering hand; but while Mrs. Sullivan presented all the beautiful traits of a peaceful, happy decline into the vale of years, the countenance of Mr. Oakly was furrowed and haggard with remorse, and all those evil passions which had formerly ruled his reason. Quickly advancing, he extended his hand, and attempted to speak, but emotion checked all utterance, while the big tears slowly rolled down his cheek. “O, speak—speak! tell me—Louisa!” cried Mrs. Sullivan, alarmed at his agitation. “Compose yourself,” replied Mr. Oakly, “Louisa is well. I have sought this interview, that I may make all the reparation now left me for my injustice and cruelty. You see before you, madam, a miserable man, haunted by remorse, and vain regrets for past misdeeds. From my once proud and lofty standing,” he continued, glancing around the apartment, “I am reduced to this. Yet think not I repine for the loss of riches. No! were millions now at my command, I would barter all for a clear, unaccusing conscience. Wealth, based on fraud, on uncharitableness, must sooner or later come to ruin. I once despised poverty, and cherished a haughty spirit toward those I arrogantly deemed my inferiors. Have I not my reward!” “But my child—tell me of my child!” interrupted Mrs. Sullivan, scarce heeding his remarks, “where is she? May I not see her!” “Bear with me a little while longer,” said Mr. Oakly, “in half an hour she shall be yours forever!” “My God, I thank thee!” exclaimed Mrs. Sullivan, bursting into tears of joy. “Yes, I yield her to your arms,” continued Mr. Oakly, “the loveliest daughter that ever blessed a mother, and relieve you forever from the charge of an unfortunate, to whom my conduct has been both brutal and unnatural. Listen to me, madam, for a few moments.”