Monroe smiled, and only replied,—­

“Think of my mother!  I must do something besides enjoying life, as you call it:  I must earn the means of making it enjoyable.”

“You were always a good boy,” replied his friend, benignantly.  “So go to work; but don’t forget to walk out of town now and then; in which case, I hope you won’t disdain the company of one of the idlers.”

* * * * *

The “mother” was full of joy; her melancholy nervousness almost wholly forsook her.  She looked proudly upon her “dear boy,” thinking him the best, most considerate, faithful, and affectionate of sons,—­as he was.

Walter, after listening to her benedictions, told her he had an invitation from Mr. Lindsay to dine the next day, and begged her to go with him; but the habit of inaction, the dread of bustle and motion, were too strong to be overcome.  She could not be persuaded to leave home.

“But go, by all means, Walter,” she added.  “It will be pleasant to be on such terms with your employer.  I must keep watch of you, though, now that Alice is gone.  Are there young ladies at the house?”

“Why, mother, how jealous you are!  Do you think I go about falling in love with all the young ladies I see?  Mr. Lindsay has a beautiful daughter; but do you think a poor clerk is likely to be regarded as ‘eligible’ by a family accustomed to wealth and luxury?”

The mother looked as though she thought her son a match for the richest and proudest; she said nothing, but patted his head as though he were still only a boy.

“Speaking of Alice, mother, I am very much concerned about her.  Now that I am reestablished, I shall make every exertion to find her and bring her home to live with us.  Mr. Greenleaf, I know, is looking for her; very little good it will do him, if he finds her.”

“But we shall hear from him, I presume?”

“I think so.  He is intimate with my friend Mr. Easelmann.—­But, mother, I have some more good news.  I shall get our property back.  Lawyers say that Mr. Tonsor will be obliged to give up the notes, and look to the estate of Sandford for the money he lent.  And the notes, fortunately, are as valuable as ever, in spite of all the multitude of failures; one name, at least, on each note is good.”

“Everything comes back, like Job’s prosperity.  This repays us for all our anxiety.”

“If Alice had not run away!”

“But we shall have her again,—­poor motherless child!”

So with mutual gratulations they passed the evening.  My readers who now enjoy a mother’s love, or look back with affectionate reverence to such scenes in the past, will pardon these apparently unimportant portions of the story.  Sooner or later all will learn that no worldly success whatever, no friendships, not even the absorbing love of wife and children, can afford a pleasure so full, so serene, as the sacred feeling which rises at the recollection of a mother’s self-sacrificing affection.