“No, your father wished that name buried—and it was. We never mentioned it, but lived for each other. My business supported us and occupied my mind. My boy had a good education, you know that; and a better man than he never breathed. He had the talent of an artist, and, as the most direct way of earning money, learned wood-engraving. Then he married your mother. She was an orphan, pretty and good. I loved her dearly; and when she died, her little children became mine. We all lived together; I gave up my little store, for your father earned money enough to support us. We were content. Indeed, we were happy, in a way; living so close together, loving each other so dearly—how could we help it? Anna, dear, God always brings contentment to the patient worker.” “Grandmother, I understand; you mean this for me!” The old lady’s feeble arms tightened around the girl, and she went on. “Before your father went to the army, here the living was cheaper; and, perhaps, he had some other reason. It was his wish, and I made no opposition. We had a hard life, darling; sometimes we were hungry and cold, too. It came with cruel force on you children; I tried to save you—tried to be all that your father was; but a poor old woman has but little power. Still, still, look back, child, and see how the good Lord has helped us; so many friends—such bright, bright prospects; the boys doing so well. Hark! they are coming. Wipe your eyes, dear, they must not think we have been crying. Here they come, so happy.” The old woman wiped her tears away and looked toward the door, smiling. Anna caught the sweet infection, and she too looked bright and hopeful when the boys came in clamorous with praises of their new home. CHAPTER XXII. A MYSTERIOUS APPOINTMENT. Mrs. Savage was in a state of continual unhappiness. When a really good-hearted woman swerves from the right path, either from policy or interest, she is sure to be the greatest sufferer of all the parties in interest. She saw her son come in and go out with that restless, dejected air which often follows a great disappointment. He took no interest in his old pursuits; and all the sweet confidence which had existed between the mother and son was swept away from their lives. This sprung mostly out of her own self-consciousness. She knew that her own ruthless influence had broken up the best hope of his young life; and remembering that cruel interview with Anna Burns, would not look her son squarely in the face, or soften his melancholy with sweet caresses, as a good mother loves to give while comforting her son. Horace felt this, and it made him feel still more desolate. He congratulated himself that his mother was ignorant of the humiliating attachment he had formed, and gathered up all the strength of his manhood to meet the life which lay before him divested of half its bloom.