“But you have suffered more than I have, for, during all this time till the war commenced, I thought both you and my son dead; while you, knowing me alive, thought me a guilty man. Poor Mary! your unhappiness has been greater than mine.” “Thank God for that!” she said, meekly. “And now it must be my pleasure to lead you down the path which is lost in the valley and shadow. You need me now more than ever, and I need you, Mary, as we grow weaker and older; such companionship as you and I can give each other becomes the sweetest and most precious thing in life. Do not cry, Mary; but rather let me see if the old smile lives for me yet.” She looked up, and the wrinkles about her mouth softened into the sweetest expression you ever saw on a human face. “God has been very good to us,” she said; “but for our son’s death I could, indeed, smile. Now I feel as if I had robbed you of him.” “Never think that again. But remember that it is a good thing to have loved ones waiting for us on the other side. I shall see our son; of that be certain.” “Yes, yes, we shall both see him; and his children—have you seen them?” “Yes; the lad Robert is with me—a fine little fellow.” “Anna, too?” “Pretty as you were long ago, and I think as good.” “But Joseph, dear little Joseph, you must love him above all; he is the very image of his father.” “I have seen him, too. I saw you all sitting in a picture together.” “And recognized us?” “At the first glance; for then I knew that my wife was alive. More—after our son went to the war, he wrote to me, told me that his mother was living, and besought me to find her, should he fall, and save his family from want. He gave no name but his own—no address; but referred me to a gentleman in New York, who would tell me where to find you. This letter was sent from the army, and met with the usual delays before it reached me. Only two days before I saw you in that picture did I know of your existence. I telegraphed to the person who held your address, and was answered that he was away from home. Then I saw you for that one moment, and you were lost to me again. I searched for you for days to no avail. Then I went to New York; the man I sought had gone to Europe. I followed him, learned the name you have borne, and where you could be found—learned that our grandchild was already under my care. But I am an old man, Mary, and have learned how to wait. Did you know that this house is mine—that I sent you here; that Anna is my friend; and that little Joseph has made a small fortune in selling me papers?” “I know that I am this moment the happiest old woman that ever lived.” “I am glad of that. If I can help it, Mary, you shall never be unhappy again. We will enter on our second childhood with tranquil hearts; knowing so well what loneliness is, we shall feel the value of loving companionship as few old people ever did. Now tell me how it was that the terrible mistake which separated us arose.”