One day, towards the end of July, a traveller dropped from the top of the Derby coach at the manufacturing village of Beeton, and took his way across the wide meadows in the direction of Woodburn. The hay had been cleared, and numerous herds of cattle were grazing in them on the new-springing grass. The flowers of the meadow-sweet yet breathed out their fragrance as the traveller walked on by the long hedge sides, and along the dry footpath, with his eyes fixed on the distant heights of Woodburn and the woods of Rockville. He had evidently chosen this path that he might not be much seen; and as he observed some peasants coming along the footpath towards him, he crossed a gate, and sat down under the fence until they had passed. He then recrossed and pursued his way. This traveller was Henry Thorsby; but what a change! Instead of that bustling, mercurial air, he looked grave, and even sad. He was wondering, after all, notwithstanding Letty’s goodness, what sort of a reception he would meet with. He knew that he deserved nothing but reproach, and all the causes of such reproach rose up in his memory as he walked on. He had learned, too, from Letty’s letters, and the English newspapers, the whole strange story of Mr. Woodburn’s arrest and trial. It seemed that he was drawing near to a very different Woodburn from that of past times; and on reaching the river he hesitated whether to cross and go boldly on to the Grange, or sit down and spend his time in the solitary fields till he could steal away unnoticed to his house in Castleborough. But he knew that Letty was at the Grange, where she spent most of her time in endeavouring to cheer the spirits of her father. He resolved, therefore, to go resolutely on. If he were coldly received by the family, he knew that he deserved it, and he was prepared to endure his just punishment. At Wink’s Ferry he paused and looked round, revolving in his mind the strange occurrence of Mr. Drury’s death. All looked calm, and serenely smiling as ever. He pulled himself over, and passing through the branches of a great old hazel-bush—a way well known to him and George Woodburn—entered the orchard, and so proceeded through the garden to the house. With a hesitating step and beating heart he entered the well-known sitting-room, and the next moment found himself with a wild cry of joy in the arms of his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn stood in silent surprise, and with feelings that it would be in vain to attempt to describe. Over that sacred scene of the Return of the Prodigal Son, and the forgiving hands that were extended to him, let us draw the veil of domesticity, and of silence.