“What!—my young friend, Tom Swiggs!” exclaims the old man, toddling toward Tom, and grasping firmly his hand, as he enters the door. “You are welcome to my little place, which shall be a home.” Tom hangs down his head, receives the old man’s greeting with shyness. “Your poor father and me, Tom, used to sit here many a time. (The old man points to an old sofa.) We were friends. He thought much of me, and I had a high opinion of him; and so we used to sit for hours, and talk over the deeds of the old continentals. Your mother and him didn’t get along over-well together; she had more dignity than he could well digest: but that is neither here nor there.” “I hope, in time,” interrupts Tom, “to repay your kindness. I am willing to ply myself to work, though it degrades one in the eyes of our society.” “As to that,” returns the old man, “why, don’t mention it. Maria, you know, will be a friend to you. Come away now and see her.” And taking Tom by the hand, (the theologian has withdrawn,) he becomes enthusiastic, leads him through the dark, narrow passage into the back parlor, where he is met by Maria, and cordially welcomed. “Why, Tom, what a change has come over you,” she ejaculates, holding his hand, and viewing him with the solicitude of a sister, who hastens to embrace a brother returned after a long absence. Letting fall his begrimed hand, she draws up the old-fashioned rocking chair, and bids him be seated. He shakes his head moodily, says he is not so bad as he seems, and hopes yet to make himself worthy of her kindness. He has been the associate of criminals; he has suffered punishment; he feels himself loathed by society; he cannot divest himself of the odium clinging to his garments. Fain would he go to some distant clime, and there seek a refuge from the odium of felons. “Let no such thoughts enter your mind, Tom,” says the affectionate girl; “divest yourself at once of feelings that can only do you injury. You have engaged my thoughts during your troubles. Twice I begged your mother to honor me with an interview. We were humble people; she condescended at last. But she turned a deaf ear to me when I appealed to her for your release, merely inquiring if-like that other jade-I had become enamored of—” Maria pauses, blushing. “I would like to see my mother,” interposes Tom. “Had I belonged to our grand society, the case had been different,” resumes Maria. “Truly, Maria,” stammers Tom, “had I supposed there was one in the world who cared for me, I had been a better man.” “As to that, why we were brought up together, Tom. We knew each other as children, and what else but respect could I have for you? One never knows how much others think of them, for the—” Maria blushes, checks herself, and watches the changes playing over Tom’s countenance. She was about to say the tongue of love was too often silent.