This was all a month after the wedding, and it was the loveliest June Sunday, imaginable. Mr. Congreve had dreaded so to go back to Virginia without Jean, that he had yielded to their entreaties, and spent that length of time with them; but now he was going on the next day; and the old gentleman's feelings were so deeply stirred with the thought that he was obliged to resort to his crusty manners to hide them. He had most fervently hoped that Olive would change her mind, though possessed with an inward conviction that she would not; yet even while he so deeply regretted her decision, he could not but admire the independence, that refused to sit with idle hands, and receive every advantage and advancement from another. Surely, if Olive ever did marry, she would bring something to her husband besides her dependent self, and he might know, above all doubts, that indeed, he was truly loved in her heart of hearts. Every member of the family had grown to dearly love the crusty, abrupt, peculiar old man, who wore the goodness of his heart like a mantle about him, yet so modest with it. They never knew, until after he had left them, how much good he had quietly done in his morning walks about Canfield. How he had bought poor little lame Katie Gregg a great wax doll, that could speak and cry; filled the pantry of the hard-working widow mother with packages unnumbered, pretending to be so innocent of the deed, when she found who was the giver, and tried to thank him. There came to them, for many days after he had gone, reports, here and there, of the little deeds of kindness and acts of thoughtful generosity, the need of which, he had discovered at odd times and said nothing about, with the modesty which is characteristic of the true giver. The parting was a truly sad one, yet not without its funny side, for the old gentleman was so torn up in mind that his actions were irresistibly funny. He whisked his red handkerchief about with such energy that its edges were pretty near in strips; and he blew his poor old nose in such repeated and violent fashions, that it clearly resembled a highly colored tomato. "There won't be any little girl any where," he said, mournfully. "It will be so lonesome in the morning, and in the evening, and all in the day, and I will wonder if Jeanie is never coming down stairs to sit in my lap in the old library. I shall get cross, and ugly as a bear, for want of two little hands to smooth the wrinkles out of my old forehead, and a dear little girl to keep my heart in good working order. It will all be dreadful! dreadful!" There was something pathetic in the picture they made, sitting there. The old man, with his white head and tear dimmed eyes, holding Jean in his lap, with her arms about his neck, and his wrinkled cheek rested on her curly hair.