She told him all, exactly as she had related the facts to Anna only a short time before. “I can understand now,” he said, thoughtfully. “This lady was my brother’s wife; he had just come over from England, and took the western trip with me. The poor young man never came back, but died in the wilderness. It was his wife you saw; his letters she was reading.” “Oh, foolish, wicked woman that I was, so readily to believe ill of you!” cried the old lady. “Do not blame yourself. The evidence, false as it was, might have deceived any one. You did not know that my brother was in the country, for he came on me unannounced. It was a natural mistake, and you acted nobly. It has cost us dear, but we will not spend the precious time left to us in regretting it.” “Thank heaven! I had no bitterness; it was for your sake I hid myself.” “Bitterness! No, no! It was for me—and when you thought me unworthy. I shall never forget that. Now let us put all these things aside and think only of the present.” “Oh! that is so beautiful!” she said, looking around, but turning her eyes on him at last. “After all, James, you do not look so very old.” He laughed gayly, and would have smoothed her hair in the old fashion, but feeling the lace of her cap, desisted, ending off his laugh with a little sigh, which she heard with a sad sort of feeling, as if the ghost of her youth were passing by. “This is a pleasant place,” said the old man, looking out into the balcony, where gleams of sunshine were at play with the leaves. “Do you know, Mary, I have never seen a place that seemed so like home since we parted in England.” She smiled pleasantly, and holding out her withered little hand, and blushing like a girl, said, “Then stay here with us. It is so pleasant here.” “And my old castle is so gloomy. Yes, Mary, I am coming home to help take care of the grandchildren. But I must go now, or they will catch me here earlier than I wish. Yes, yes; it is a pleasant little home.” He went out suddenly, the old lady thought with tears in his eyes, and she stole into the balcony to watch him as a girl of twenty might. She saw him pick a rosebud and put it into his buttonhole, smiling to himself all the while. Then she stole away and went into her bedroom; and there Anna found her, when she came home, upon her knees, and with such benign joy on her face that the young girl closed the door, and went off on tiptoe, as if she had disturbed an angel. After awhile the old lady came out; but judging of her husband’s wishes by that intuition which needs no instruction, she said nothing of his visit, but waited for him to explain, as best pleased him. “Grandmother,” said Anna, “you and I are wanted at the old house. Our friend is driven beyond any thing with her work, but must go out especially this afternoon. Will you go with me and help her sewing forward. I have set out the boy’s supper.”