Mrs. Burns left that commonplace-room with tears in her eyes. She did not know how dear it had been to her. Anna, too, was very sad. She had heard nothing from old Mr. Gould; and her life was so far removed from that of Savage that he might have been dead, and she ignorant of it. Georgiana Halstead was the only human link between her and her lover; but that young lady never even mentioned his name. She was just as kind as ever; came to see them, and took a deep interest in every thing about their little household; but the name which Anna Burns so longed to hear never passed her lips. So the last night had come; all their little effects were packed up ready for moving. The boys had gone over to the new house, which they had not yet seen. Joseph had walked by the house with a bundle of newspapers under his arm, and came home that night in wonderful spirits, leaping up the stairs two steps at a time. When Robert asked him what it was all about, he answered, “Balconies, vines, garden, and snow-balls, with something like a house back of it. Stupendous!” So Robert had gone with his brother that evening, with a candle, and box of matches, to see what was behind the snow-balls and vines, leaving those two females alone in the rooms. “Grandmother,” said Anna, sitting down by the old lady, “you have been crying.” “Yes, child. She was so kind, and so sorry, I could not help it.” “Grandmother?” “Well, darling?” “Do you think we shall ever be happy again? That is, happy as we were before this prosperity came upon us?” “Are you so very miserable, my darling?” “Yes, so miserable, so dreadfully miserable. Oh, grandma, grandma! my heart is breaking.” “My child! Anna Burns! There, there, lay your head on my bosom. I thought it was hard to see you hungry, dear; but this is worse, a thousand times worse.” “Oh, grandmother! my heart is hungry, now.” “I know it; God help us, I know it!” “Oh! what can I do? What can I do?” “Have patience, child.” “I have tried to have patience; but it is killing me.” “Pray to God, child—pray to God; he alone can feed a hungry heart.” “I have prayed, but he will not hear me,” cried Anna, giving way to a passion of grief. “Yes, Anna, he heard me when I cried out to him in the depths of a sorrow deep as yours.” “Deep as mine! Oh, grandmother! tell me what it was. _Have_ you ever suffered so?” “I will tell you, Anna; God forbid that I should keep back even my own sorrow, if the telling will help you to bear that which is upon you. I was older than you, dear, some two or three years, when I was married to your grandfather. How dearly I loved him no human being will ever guess, Anna, dear. It was wicked to love any one as I worshipped your grandfather; as I worship him yet; for such feelings live through old age.” “Do they—do they? When love becomes a pain, does it ache on through the whole life?” cried Anna, trembling with agitation. “Does nothing even quiet it?” “Yes, darling; God can turn pain into resignation.”