Meantime frequent communications had passed between Mrs. Dunmore and her daughter, and now came glad anticipations of a speedy return to the home and child of her love. Her mission was accomplished. "The silver string was loosed, the golden bowl broken;" and the old and wearied body laid away for its long and peaceful rest. For months had she soothed its pains, and rendered its pathway to the tomb easy and pleasant, and now that the green earth covered it, and its repose could be no more disturbed, her heart yearned toward the child of her adoption, and the hours lagged heavily that must intervene before they could meet again. Business transactions in connection with the possessions of the deceased still required her presence for awhile, and she must yield to the demands of duty. Jennie would have been quite impatient, had not Carrie Halberg's arrival reconciled her to another school term before rejoining her mother in their delightful home.

"Rosalie has told me so much about you," said she, as she ushered her into their cosey room. "I feel as if I quite know you already. It would be strange if we did not know each other, when we have the same grandpa, wouldn't it?"

"Oh yes, Rosalie told me how fond grandpa was of you, and I'm sure I owe you a great deal of affection for going so often to see him while he was alone. Simon said he was sad indeed after you came away, and that he would stand for hours by the gate looking down the street toward the old Buttonwood for you. I never knew him to fancy any one but Rosalie besides me, before; but Rosalie and Simon both think we are alike, and I suppose he thought you were me."

"Very likely," said Jennie; "but Carrie, what made him fancy the name so? I heard Simon say 't was all in the name."

"Oh! that was the name of my aunt that's dead; she was an only daughter. Didn't you see her portrait hanging in my grandfather's room?"

"I was never in the house, Carrie, for there were none but servants there, you know, and then the garden was so pleasant! Was your aunt pretty?"

"I never hear any one but father speak of her, and he often visits her portrait, and never leaves it without weeping—it is very beautiful! But you shall see it, Jennie, for my father promises me you shall return with me to my home. He is so delighted to add to my grandfather's comfort in any way. Isn't it dreadful, Jennie, to be in this lovely world with so much around you to charm and please, and yet the sense of enjoyment gone, and brightness and beauty all the same as if it were brown and sere? You'll find me a dull companion, I fear, Jennie, for I've grown old and thoughtful by seeing so much of poor grandpa."

"Perhaps I am made thoughtful, too, by past troubles, Carrie! It doesn't need age to bring sorrows upon us."

"What griefs can have bowed those youthful heads so early, my darlings?" said Madame La Blanche, who had softly entered the room and caught part of Jennie's sentence. "It is better to recount the many mercies of our lot, rather than to dwell upon the ills of life! Indeed, our very sorrows often prove blessings to us if we will but permit them to work the effect designed;" and sitting down in one of the wide windows, she drew the young girls to her and placing one on either side, there, while the shadows were lengthening in the beautiful garden, and the night came creeping silently on, she talked to them as a gentle mother would, of the great object and aim of this mortal life, and the high destiny which all may attain if they only so far desire it as to strive after it, and as the evening stole upon them, and the stars came quietly out in the mild heavens, she kissed them tenderly and left them to the sweet influences of the calm night, and of their own subdued thoughts. For a long time the two girls sat gazing earnestly upward, while one heart dwelt lovingly upon the old figure with silvery locks, and the other upon the spirits of her departed parents that seemed even then hovering about her.