But who is the thin, careworn-looking mother, who appears in the centre of the merry group? Is it possible to recognize in that quiet parson’s wife, in her simple cap, and her plain woollen dress, the once gay Clementina? What a wondrous change has been wrought by change of circumstances—or rather, by religious principles and domestic affection! Clementina’s home is now her world, and the wants of her large family, and the claims of the poor, leave little margin for show. Yet there is a cheerfulness in her tone, and a sweetness in her smile, which in earlier days neither had possessed; the merry voices of her children, her husband’s kind words, and the blessings of the humble members of his flock, far more than make up to her for the now half-forgotten flatteries and follies of Vanity Fair. To the eldest boy the post of honour is committed. He draws out parcel after parcel from the depths of the box, and calling out aloud the name labelled upon each, gives it to its eager proprietor. “Mamma, this is for you,” and a square, flat parcel, was placed in the hands of Clementina Searle. It contained two small framed paintings by Charles, to adorn the bare walls of her humble little home. Perhaps there was something in the subject of those drawings which recalled thoughts of former days, for the lady’s eyes grew moist as she looked upon them. The one represented a mossy ruin, gray with age, and near it a rustic gate, on which leaned a youthful pilgrim. A staff was in his hand, a burden on his back, and he was looking upwards, with an anxious eye, on the cloudy, lowering sky above him. [Illustration: THE WELCOME BOX.] The other represented a clear broad river, glittering in the rays of the setting sun. Beyond it were banks clothed with verdure and beauty, with a rich, red glow over all, and the openings between the wreaths of golden clouds seemed to give glimpses of brighter glories beyond. The same pilgrim appeared, one foot still in the stream, the other on the beautiful shore; his face could not be seen, but the sunny beams shone like a halo round his head; the burden was gone, and instead of the staff his hand grasped the conqueror’s palm. “How fondly he is remembered yet,” thought Clementina; “the brother’s love seems but to strengthen with time.” She was interrupted by the voice of her son Ernest. “Mamma, see what a beautiful book Mr. Ewart has sent me! It looks like an old friend in a new dress, for I am sure that it is just the same as the one that you read to us on Sundays, only that mine is so prettily bound and illustrated, so I like it much better than yours.” [Illustration: THE NEW BOOK.]