“How has he invested it?  Have you got the securities?”

“Not yet, mother.  I have left the money on his note for the present; and when he has found a good chance to loan it, he will give me the mortgages or stocks, as the case may be.  But come, mother, let us sit down to tea.  All is safe, I am sure; and to-morrow I will make you satisfied with my prudent management.”

When the simple meal was over, they sat in the twilight before the gas was lighted.  The moments passed rapidly in their free and loving converse.  Then the table was drawn out and the new book was opened.  Mrs. Monroe suddenly recollected something.

“Walter, my dear, a letter was left here to-day by the postman.  As it was directed to the street and number, it did not go to your box.  Here it is.  I have read it; and rather sad news it brings.  Cousin Augustus is failing, so his daughter writes, and it is doubtful whether he ever recovers.  Poor child!  I am sorry for her.”

Walter took the letter and hastily read it.

“A modest, feeling, sensible little girl, I am sure.  I have never seen her, you know; but this letter is simple, touching, and womanly.”

“A dear, good girl, I am sure.  How lonely she must be!”

“Mother, I believe I’ll go and see them.  In time of trouble we should forget ceremony.  Cousin Augustus has never invited me, but I’ll go and see him.  Won’t you go, too?”

“Dear boy, I couldn’t!  The cars?  Oh, never!”

Walter smiled.  “You don’t get over your prejudices.  The cars are perfectly safe, and more comfortable than coaches.”

“I can’t go; it’s no use to coax me.”

“I have but one thing to trouble me, mother,—­and that is, that I can never get you away from this spot.”

“I’m very happy, Walter, and it’s a very pleasant spot; why should I wish to go?”

“How long since you have been down Washington Street?”

“Ten years, I think.”

“And you have never seen the new theatre, nor the Music Hall?”

“No.”

“Nor any of the new warehouses?”

“I don’t want to see them.”

“And you wouldn’t go to church, if it were more than a stone’s throw away?”

“I am afraid not.”

“How long since you were in a carriage?”

Her eyes filled with tears, but she made no reply.

“Forgive me, mother!  I remember the time,—­five years! and it seems like yesterday when father”—­

There was a silence which, for a time, neither cared to break.

“Well,” said Walter, at length, “I shall have to go alone.  To-morrow morning I will arrange my business,—­not forgetting our securities,—­and start in the afternoon train.”

“Your father often spoke of Cousin Augustus and his lovely wife; I wonder if the daughter has her mother’s beauty?”

“I can’t tell.  I hope so.  But don’t look so inquiringly.  I don’t love a woman in the world,—­except you, mother.  I shan’t fall in love, even if she is an angel.”