“It is better so, for the present. I hope that he will enjoy himself and come home in a happier frame of mind.” “Of whom are you speaking, my child?” inquired the General, raising his eyes from a report of the last great debate in the Senate. “Of Alick. He sailed in the Erie for Liverpool on last Saturday,” answered Drusilla, quite calmly. “Ah! he did? Well, I think it about the best thing he could have done. I hope he will stay there until he comes to his senses. Joy go with him!” heartily exclaimed the old gentleman. “Dear uncle!” pleaded Drusilla. “Well, my dear, what now?” I said, “Joy go with him. That was a benediction, was it not?” “I thought it was a sarcasm,” said Drusilla, archly. The General coughed slightly and returned to the perusal of the debate. So Mr. Alexander had betaken himself to parts unknown, and Drusilla was by no means broken-hearted on that account. All the tears she was ever destined to shed for him seemed already to have fallen; all the heart-aches she was ever to feel for him seemed already to have been suffered and forgotten. Understand once for all that, though she loved him as faithfully and hoped in him as trustfully as ever, she no longer mourned his absence. I repeat it—she could love forever and hope forever, but she could not grieve forever—not with her beautiful bright boy before her eyes. It was delightful to see the young mother at this time of her life. She was the sunshine of that sweet old home. All the joyousness, hopefulness and truthfulness of childhood seemed to have returned to her; or, rather, as her own childhood had not been a particularly happy one, to have come to her for the first time with her child. She sang in her nursing chair, or at her needle-work, all the morning; she sang at the piano, or the harp, or sang duets with Anna or Dick in the evening. She had a clear, sweet, elastic voice, a pure soprano, perfectly adapted to the bird-like carols that she most favored. General Lyon, whose passion for music had survived all other enthusiasms, and had even increased with his declining years, seemed never to grow weary of her delicious notes. This pleased Anna. “Dear grandpa,” she would often repeat, “I am so glad you have her here; and will have her with you when Dick takes me away. It will be such a comfort to me to feel you are not lonesome.” “I don’t know how that may be, my dear. The more I see of our darling, the more inclined I am to think that fellow will come to his senses and claim her from us before we are willing to resign her. And _then_ what shall I do?” the old man once inquired, with a sigh. And then Drusilla put her hand in his, and looked up in his eyes with all a daughter’s devotion, and answered: