It was very strange, thought old Job Golding, that he couldn't be master of his own mind. He had lived a great many years, and neither remorse nor memory had ever been in the habit of disturbing him; but now it seemed to him as if the very foundations of his life were breaking up. He was through with his day's work,—he had dined comfortably,—he sat in an easy-chair, in a luxurious room whose crimson hangings shut out the still cold of the December afternoon,—for the 24th of December it was. He was all ready to enjoy himself. How singular that this state of things should remind him of a coming time when his life work would be all done,—even as his day's work was all done now,—when he would be ready to sit down in the afternoon and look over the balance sheet of his deeds. How curiously the old days came trooping in slow procession before him.

His dead wife; he had not loved her much when she was with him, but how vivid was his memory of her now! He could see her moving round the house, noiseless as a shadow, never intruding on him, after he had once or twice answered her gruffly, but going on her own meek, still ways, with her face growing whiter every day. He began to understand, as he looked back, why her strength had failed and she had been ready, when her baby came, to float out on the tide and let it drift her into God's haven. She had had enough to eat and to drink, but he saw now that he had left her heart to starve. He seemed to see her white, still face, as he looked at it the last time before they screwed down the coffin lid, with the dumb reproach frozen on it, the eyes, that would never again plead vainly, closed for ever.

He recalled how passionately the three-days-old baby cried in another room, just at that moment, moving all the people gathered at the funeral with a thrill of pity for the poor little motherless morsel. She was a passionate, wilful baby, all through her babyhood, he remembered. She wanted—missed without knowing what the lack was—the love which her mother would have given her, and protested against fate with all the might of her lungs. But, as soon as she grew old enough to understand how useless it was, she had grown quiet, too; just like her mother. He recalled her, all through her girlhood, a shy, still girl, always obedient and submissive, but never drawing very near him. Did she have tastes, he wondered—wants, longings? She never told him.

But suddenly, when she was eighteen, the old, passionate spirit that had made her cry so when she was a baby must have awakened again, he thought; for she fell in love then, and married in defiance of his wishes. He remembered her standing proudly before him, and asking,—

"Father, do you know any thing against Harry Church?"

"Yes," he had answered wrathfully; "I know that he is as poor as Job was when he sat among the ashes; he can't keep a wife."

"Any thing else, father?" looking him steadily in the eye.

"No, that's enough," he had thundered; "and I'll tell you, besides, that if you marry him you must lie in the bed you will make. My doors will never open to you again, never."

He met with a will as strong as his own that time. She did marry Harry Church, and went away with him from her father's house. She had written home more than once afterwards, but he had sent the letters all back unopened. He wished, to-day, that he knew what had been in them; whether she had been suffering for any thing. He wondered why he had opposed the marriage so much. Harry Church had been a clerk in his store; faithful, intelligent, industrious, only—poor. In that word lay the head and front of his offending. He, Job Golding, was rich,—had been rich all his lifetime,—but what special thing had riches done for him? He was an old man now, and all alone. "All alone;" he kept saying that over and over, with a sort of vague self-pity.

And all this time a message was on its way to him.

He heard a ring at the door, but he went on with his thoughts, and did not trouble himself about it. Meantime, two persons had been admitted into the hall below; a man and a little girl, eight years old, perhaps. Her companion took off her hood and her warm wrappings, and the child stood there,—a dainty, delicate creature,—her golden curls drooping softly round her face, with its large blue eyes and parted scarlet lips. The housekeeper had come into the hall, and she turned pale as she saw that little face.

"Miss Amy's child," she said to the man, nervously. "It is as much as my place is worth to let her come in here."

"You are Mrs. Osgood, are you not?" said the little girl, looking at her.

"Hear the blessed lamb! Who in this world told you there was a Mrs. Osgood?"

"Mamma. You loved mamma, didn't you? She said you were always so kind to her."

"Loved your ma? Well, I did love her. The old house has never been the same since she went out of it."

"Then you'll let me go up alone and see grandpa? That is what mamma said I was to do."

Mrs. Osgood hesitated a moment, then love and memory triumphed over fear, and she said,—

"Yes, you shall. Heaven forbid I should hinder you! Go right upstairs and open the first door."

The man who had come with her sat down in the hall to wait, and the little figure, with its gleaming, golden hair, tripped on alone.

She opened the door softly, and went in. She did not speak; perhaps the stern-looking old man sitting there awed her to silence. She just stepped up to him and handed him a letter. He took it, scarcely noticing, so busy was he with his thoughts, at the hand of what strange messenger. He looked at the outside. It was his daughter's writing. Ten years ago he had sent her last letter back unopened; but this one,—what influence apart from himself moved him to read it? It was not long, but it commenced with "Dear father." He had never been a dear father to her, he thought.

She had waited all these silent years, she told him, because she was determined never to write to him again until they were rich enough for him to know that she did not write from any need of his help. They had passed these ten years in the West, and Heaven had prospered them. Her husband was a rich man, now; and she wanted from her father only his love,—wanted only that death should not come between them, and either of them go to her mother's side without having been reconciled to the other.

"Let her lips speak to you from the grave," she wrote; "her lips, which you must have loved once, and which never grew old or lost their youth's brightness,—let them plead with you to be reconciled to her child. Surely, you will not turn away from the messenger I send,—your own grandchild."

The messenger,—he had forgotten about her. He turned and she was standing there, like a spirit, on his hearthstone, with her white face and her gleaming golden hair. He looked at her, and saw her father's broad, full brow and thoughtful eyes, and below them the sweetness of her mother's smile. His grandchild—his! His heart throbbed chokingly. He grew hungry to clasp her,—to feel her soft arms clinging round his neck, her tender lips kissing away the furrows of his hard life from his face. But he feared to startle her. He tried to speak gently,—he, to whom gentleness was so new and strange.

"Come here, little girl," he said; and she went up to him fearlessly. "Can you tell me how old you are, and what your name is?"

"I am eight, grandpapa, and my name is Amy."

Another Amy! He felt the great sobs rising up from his heart, but he choked them back.

"What have they told you about me?" he asked her anxiously. Could it be possible, he wondered, that they had not taught her to hate him?

"They always told me that you were far away toward where the sun rose; and if I were good they would fetch me to see you some day. And every night I say in my prayers, 'God bless papa and mamma, and God bless grandpapa.'"

"Why didn't they fetch you; what made them let you come alone?"

"Mamma said she would surprise you with your big grandchild. They are waiting at the hotel, and John is down-stairs. They want you to come back with me. Will you, grandpapa?"

Mrs. Osgood looked on in wonder, as her master came downstairs and put on his overcoat,—came down holding the child's hand in his, her golden hair floating beside him. Was that old Job Golding?

He stepped into the carriage in which careful Mistress Amy had sent her messenger. The horses did not go fast enough. He would have been in a fever of impatience, but the child's hand in his quieted him. Through it all he was wondering vaguely what it meant,—whether he were his own old self, or some one else.

At last they were there, and the child led him in,—up the long hotel stairs, across hall and corridor,—until, at length, she opened a door and said cheerily,—

"Mamma, here's grandpapa."

His head swam. He was fain to sit down, and there were his own Amy's arms about his neck. Why had he never known what he lost, in losing the sweetness of her love, through all these vanished years? He held her fast now, and he heard her voice close to his ear:—

"Father, are we reconciled at last?"

"I don't know, daughter, until you've told me whether you've forgiven me."

"There need be no talk about forgiveness," she said. "You went according to your own light. It is enough that God has brought us together again in peace. I thought that no one could resist my little Amy, least of all her grandpapa."

He looked up, and the child stood by, silently; the firelight glittering in her golden hair, her face shining strangely sweet. He put out his arms and drew her into them, close—where no child, not even his own, had ever nestled before. Oh, how much he had missed in life! he thought. He felt her clinging hold round his neck,—her kisses dropped upon his face like the pitying dew from heaven, and he—was it himself, or another soul in his place?

"Here, father," Amy's voice had a cheerful ring to it, and her happy married life had made of her a fine, contented, matronly-appearing woman, "here are Harry and the boys waiting to speak to you."

He shook his son-in-law's hand heartily. Old feuds, old things, were over now, and all was become new. Then he looked at the boys,—six-years-old Hal, three-years-old Geordie,—brave, merry little fellows, of whom he should be proud some day; only they could never be to him quite like this girl in his arms,—his first-found grandchild.

He sat there among them, surrounded by the peace and warmth of their household love, and felt as if a new life had come. He did not go away until long after, by the rules of any well-ordered nursery, those three pairs of bright little eyes should have been closed in sleep; but they must sit up to see the last of grandpapa. When, at length, he went, he told them that they must all come home to him on the morrow,—there must be no more staying at hotels, when his big, lonesome house was waiting for them.

"To-morrow is Christmas," his daughter said, half doubtfully.

"All the better. If Christmas was never kept in my house, it ought to be. Come round to dinner,—three o'clock sharp,—and bring all the boxes with you. That will give you time to pack up, and Mrs. Osgood time to get your rooms ready."

"Boxes and boys,—won't they be too much for you, father?"

"When they are I'll tell you,"—with a last touch of the old gruffness.

Then he went out on the street, and began looking for Christmas gifts. It was new business for him, but he went into it earnestly and anxiously. It was so late, and every one seemed so busy, he thought it would never do to trust to the shopmen for sending things home. So he perambulated the streets like a bewildered Santa Claus,—and went home, at last, laden with books and toys and jewels and bon-bons,—with a doll that could walk, and a parrot that could talk, and no end of sweets and confections.

He called Mrs. Osgood to help him put them away, and when they were all disposed of he said, with a curious attempt at maintaining his old sternness and dignity, which caused the good woman a secret smile,—

"Mrs. Osgood, I hope you will do yourself and me credit to-morrow. My daughter, Mrs. Church, is coming home with her husband and children, and I want the best Christmas dinner you can get up, to be on the table at a quarter-past three."

Mrs. Osgood had always loved Miss Amy, in the old days, and had been hoping against hope, all these years, for the reconciliation which had come now. So her heart was in her task, and the dinner was a master-piece,—a real work of genius, as she used to say, when she told the story afterwards.

Amy, and Amy's husband, and the roystering boys, and, best of all, the little girl close at grandpapa's side, with her happy eyes shining, and her golden hair gleaming, and her quiet, womanly little ways,—what a jubilant party they were! And among them all Job Golding saw, or fancied that he saw, another face, over which, almost thirty years ago, he had seen the grave-sod piled,—a face sad and wistful no longer, but bright with a strange glory. No one else saw her, he knew, for the gay laughs were going round, but close at his side she seemed to stand; and he heard, or fancied that he heard, a whisper from her parted lips, which only his ear caught,—the Christmas anthem,—