Alice, too, was listening with an expecting, waiting heart--one could tell it by the fluttering of the blue ribbon that encircled her neck. "He will not come to-night, mother," said she, with a sigh. "It is never so late as this, when he rides in through the gate." "I fear some accident has happened," cried Helen, "he has a very bad bridge to cross, and the stream is deep below." "How much that sounds like Helen," exclaimed Mrs Hazleton, "so fearful and full of misgivings! I shall not give him up before ten o'clock. If you like, you can both sit up and bear me company--if not, you may leave me to watch alone." They both eagerly exclaimed that they would far rather sit up with her, and then they were sure they could finish their purses, and have them ready as gifts for the brother and friend so anxiously looked for. Though the distance that separated them from him was short, and his visits frequent, they were ever counted as holidays of the heart, as eras from which all past events were dated--and on which all future ones were dependent. "When Arthur was here, we did so and so." "When Arthur comes, we will do this and that." A stranger would have thought Arthur the angel of the Parsonage, and that his coming was the advent of peace, and joy, and love. It was ever thus that listening ears and longing eyes and waiting hearts watched his approach. He was an only son and brother, and seldom indeed is it that Heaven vouchsafes such a blessing to a household, as a son and brother like Arthur Hazleton. "He's coming," cried Alice, jumping up and clapping her hands, "I hear his horse galloping towards the gate. I know the sound of its hoofs from all others." This was true. The unerring ear of the blind girl never deceived her. Arthur was indeed coming. The gate opened. His rapid footstep was heard passing through the avenue, bounding up the steps, and there they were arrested by the welcoming trio, all ready to greet him. It was a happy moment for Arthur when wrapped in that triune embrace, for Helen, timid as she was, had learned to look upon him as a dear, elder brother, whose cares and affection were divided between her and the sightless Alice; and for whom she felt a love equal to that which she cherished for Louis, mingled with a reverence and admiration that bordered upon worship. "My dear mother," said he, when they had escorted him into the sitting-room, and in spite of his resistance made him take the best and pleasantest seat in the room, "my dear mother, I hope I have not kept you up too late; I would have been here sooner, but you know I am a servant of the public, and my time is not my own."