“Di, my father began the world as I begin it, and left it the richer for the useful years he spent here,—­as I hope I may leave it some half-century hence.  His memory makes that dingy shop a pleasant place to me; for there he made an honest name, led an honest life, and bequeathed to me his reverence for honest work.  That is a sort of hardware, Di, that no rust can corrupt, and which will always prove a better fortune than any your knights can achieve with sword and shield.  I think I am not quite a clod, or quite without some aspirations above money-getting; for I sincerely desire that courage which makes daily life heroic by self-denial and cheerfulness of heart; I am eager to conquer my own rebellious nature, and earn the confidence of innocent and upright souls; I have a great ambition to become as good a man and leave as green a memory behind me as old John Lord.”

Di winked violently, and seamed five times in perfect silence; but quiet Nan had the gift of knowing when to speak, and by a timely word saved her sister from a thunder-shower and her stocking from destruction.

“John, have you seen Philip since you wrote about your last meeting with him?”

The question was for John, but the soothing tone was for Di, who gratefully accepted it, and perked up again—­with speed.

“Yes; and I meant to have told you about it,” answered John, plunging into the subject at once.  “I saw him a few days before I came home, and found him more disconsolate than ever,—­’just ready to go to the Devil,’ as he forcibly expressed himself.  I consoled the poor lad as well as I could, telling him his wisest plan was to defer his proposed expedition, and go on as steadily as he had begun,—­thereby proving the injustice of your father’s prediction concerning his want of perseverance, and the sincerity of his affection.  I told him the change in Laura’s health and spirits was silently working in his favor, and that a few more months of persistent endeavor would conquer your father’s prejudice against him, and make him a stronger man for the trial and the pain.  I read him bits about Laura from your own and Di’s letters, and he went away at last as patient as Jacob, ready to serve another ‘seven years’ for his beloved Rachel.”

“God bless you for it, John!” cried a fervent voice; and, looking up, they saw the cold, listless Laura transformed into a tender girl, all aglow with love and longing, as she dropped her mask, and showed a living countenance eloquent with the first passion and softened by the first grief of her life.

John rose involuntarily in the presence of an innocent nature whose sorrow needed no interpreter to him.  The girl read sympathy in his brotherly regard, and found comfort in the friendly voice that asked, half playfully, half seriously,—­

“Shall I tell him that he is not forgotten, even for an Apollo? that Laura the artist has not conquered Laura the woman? and predict that the good daughter will yet prove the happy wife?”