At last, she distinctly heard a carriage coming down the road, and rising slowly from her seat, she walked forth into the front porch, where, leaning against one of the stone pillars, she stood pale and motionless, save that a quiver ran through her frame, somewhat more sharply than should have been possible to the simple tremor of old age. Decorous old age is always beautiful, and this dear old lady, in her dark dress and pure muslin cap scarcely less white than the hair it covered, formed a touching picture, as she stood in the shadow of her home, waiting—for her husband—and alas! for the only child of their love—another might come, but the old lady scarcely thought of that, her heart was too full. Slowly the carriage came up from the road and swept around to the front door. The old lady could not move. She seemed chained to the stone pillar that supported her. A mist, but not of age, crept over her vision, and through it she saw her husband descend to the ground, and then, as if moving through a cloud, she saw two female forms sinking, as it were, toward the earth, and coming steadily toward her. She could not stir or speak, but held out her trembling arms. A tall, thin woman, whose large brown eyes, full of sorrowful reproach, seemed to look through and through her, came up the steps, paused a moment so close that the trembling hands touched her, and walked on without a word. Then the old woman cried out in her anguish,— “Oh! Elsie, Elsie, will you not speak to me?” The tall woman turned at this, came a pace back, and looked at the old lady with her great, mournful eyes, silent as before. “Elsie, Elsie! It is your mother. Speak to me!” Insanity is sometimes very cruel. How steadily those great eyes looked upon the quivering anguish of that beautiful old face! How coldly the woman turned away, and walked into the shadows of her old home, holy with so many memories, all lost in the darkness that had settled on her brain! Then the old woman sent forth a cry of anguish, and reaching out her arms, fell weeping upon her husband’s bosom. “She does not know me. Oh! John, John, I thought she would have known me!” The old man, himself trembling with fatigue and agitation, bent down and kissed the forehead of his wife. But he had no words of comfort to offer. It was a terrible thing for an only child to walk thus stonily by the yearning heart of a mother. The poor old man wept over his wife; it was all he could do. But as his fond arms relaxed, a beautiful comforter appeared, breaking through the mist that grief had cast over those aged eyes like some shadowy angel. Those two withered hands were softly clasped, and a sweet, tranquillizing voice murmured,— “Do not be troubled; she is so much better, she must know you at last. Have patience, only have a little patience!”