“How did her daughter receive the news?” I inquired. I thought he turned his face a little away, as he answered. “Not so well as her mother.” I knew his voice was lower. “When I announced the fact that the claims of young Garcia had been admitted by the court, tears sprung to her eyes, and a shadow fell upon her countenance such as I have never seen there before.” “She is younger and less disciplined,” said I. “Few at her age,” he answered, “are so well disciplined” “Will they still remain in Boston?” I asked. “Yes, for the present,” he answered, and we parted. A few months after this, my wife said to me one day, “Did you hear that Mr. Wallingford had bought the pretty little cottage on Cedar Lane, where Jacob Homer lived?” “Is that true?” “It is said so. In fact, I heard it from Jane Homer, and that is pretty good authority.” “Is he going to live there with his mother?” “Jane did not know. Her husband went behind hand the year he built the cottage, and never was able to get up even with the world. So they determined to sell their place, pay off their debts, and find contentment in a rented house. Mr. Homer said something to Mr. Wallingford on the subject, and he offered to buy the property at a fair price.” A few days afterwards, in passing along Cedar Lane, I noticed a carpenter at work in the pretty cottage above referred to; and also a gardener who was trimming the shrubbery. Good morning, William, “I spoke to the gardener with whom I was well acquainted. This is a nice cozy place.” “Indeed and it is, Doctor. Mr. Homer took great pride in it.” “And showed much taste in gardening.” “You may well say that, Doctor. There isn't a finer shrubbery to any garden in S----.” “Is Mr. Wallingford going to live here, or does he intend renting the cottage?” “That's more than I can answer, Doctor. Mr. Wallingford isn't the man, you know, to talk with everybody about his affairs.” “True enough, William,” said I smiling and passed on. “Did you know,” said my wife, a few weeks later, “that Mr. Wallingford was furnishing the cottage on Cedar Lane?” “Ah! Is that so?” “Yes. Mrs. Dean told me that Jones the cabinet maker had the order, which was completed, and that the furniture was now going in. Everything, she says, is plain and neat, but good.” “Why, what can this mean, Constance? Is our young friend about to marry?” “It has a look that way, I fancy.” “But who is the bride to be?” I asked. “Mrs. Dean thinks it is Florence Williams.” “A fine girl; but hardly worthy of Henry Wallingford. Besides, he is ten year her senior,” said I. “What is the difference in our ages, dear?” Constance turned her fresh young face to mine--fresh and young still, though more than thirty-five years had thrown across it their lights and shadows, and laid her head fondly against my breast. I kissed her tenderly, and she answered her own question.