Arthur was a fine reader. His voice had that minor key which touches the chords of tenderness and feeling--that voice so sweet at the fireside, so adapted to poetry and all deep and earnest thoughts. He did not read on like a machine, without pausing to make remark or criticism, but his beautiful, eloquent commentaries came in like the symphonies of an organ. He drew forth the latent enthusiasm of Helen, who, forgetting herself and Mittie's withering accusations, expressed her sentiments with a grace, simplicity and fervor peculiar to herself. At the commencement of the evening she generally took her sewing from the basket, and her needle would flash and fly like a shooting arrow, but gradually her hands relaxed, the work fell into her lap, and yielding to the combined charms of genius and music, the divine music of the human voice, she gave herself up completely to the rapture of drinking in "Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held her breath to hear." If Arthur lifted his eyes from the page, which he had a habit of doing, he was sure to encounter a glance of bright intelligence and thrilling sensibility, instantaneously withdrawn, and then he often lost his place, skipped over a paragraph, or read the same sentence a second time, while that rich mantling glow, so seldom seen on the cheek of manhood, stole slowly over his face. These were happy evenings, and Helen could have exclaimed with little Frank in the primer, "Oh! that winter would last forever!" And yet there were times when she as well as her parents was oppressed with a weight of anxious sorrow that was almost insupportable, on account of Louis. He came not, he wrote not--and the only letter received from him had excited the most painful apprehensions for his moral safety. It contained shameful records of his past deviations from rectitude, and judging of the present by the past, they had every reason to fear that he had become an alien from virtue and home. Mr. Gleason seldom spoke of him, but his long fits of abstraction, the gloom of his brow, and the inquietude of his eye, betrayed the anxiety and grief rankling within. Helen knew not the contents of her brother's letter, nor the secret cause of grief that preyed on her father's mind, but his absence and silence were trials over which she openly and daily mourned with deep and increasing sorrow. "We shall hear from him to-morrow. He will come to-morrow." This was the nightly lullaby to her disappointed and murmuring heart. Mittie likewise repeated to herself the same refrain "He will come to-morrow. He will write to-morrow." But it was not of Louis that the prophecy was breathed. It was of another, who had become the one thought.