A slow and weary walk had Mr. Lindsay from the station to his house. It was after sunset, dark and cold, as he turned in at the gate. The house was dimly lighted, and no one save the Newfoundland dog came to greet him at the door. He did not hear his daughter singing as she was accustomed at evening. There were no pleasant voices, no light and cheerful steps in the rooms. All was silence. The ill news had preceded him. His wife without a word fell on his bosom and wept. Clara kept her seat, trying in vain, while her lip quivered and her eyes dimmed, to fix her attention upon the magazine she had held rather than read. At length Mr. Lindsay led his wife to the sofa and sat beside her, holding her hand with a tenderness that was as soothing as it was uncommon. Prosperity had not hardened his heart, but business had preoccupied it; though his manner had been kind, his family had rarely seen in him any evidence of feeling. Misfortune had now brought back the rule of his better nature, and the routine life he had led was at an end. "My dear wife, what I have most dreaded in this crash is the pain, the anxiety, and the possible discomfort it would bring to you and to Clara. For myself I care nothing. It is a hard trial, but I shall conform to our altered circumstances cheerfully." "And so shall we, father," said Clara. "We shall be happy with you anywhere." "One thing, I am sure, you can never lose," said Mrs. Lindsay,--"and that is an honorable name." "I have tried to do my duty. I gave up only when I found I must. But my duty is not yet done." "Why, father?" "My creditors have claims which I regard as sacred, and which must be paid, ultimately, at whatever sacrifice." "Won't the property at the store be enough when you can sell it?" asked Mrs. Lindsay. "You have spoken of the quantity of goods you had on hand." "I can't say, my dear. It depends upon how much time I have. If I could have effected sales, I should have been safe." "If they have the goods, won't they be satisfied?" asked Clara. "You don't understand, my daughter, that all I have is at their command. If the property does not liquidate the debts, then the house, the carriage and horses, the furniture, the"---- The possible surrender of all that had made life pleasant to his family was not to be considered without emotion, and Mr. Lindsay found himself unable to finish the sentence. "Dear father!" exclaimed Clara, seizing and kissing his hand, as she sat down at his feet,--"you are just and noble. We could not be selfish or complaining when we think of you. Let everything go. I love the dear old house, the garden that has been your pride, the books and pictures; but we shall be nearer together--shan't we, papa?--in a cottage. If they do sell my piano, I can still sing to you; nobody can take that pleasure from us."