What a merry romp they all had for the next two or three minutes.  When quiet came back again, baby was sitting on one knee, Harry on the other, and Fanny leaning her face on the shoulder of her “father”—­for so she called him with the rest—­while her glossy curls were resting in sunny clusters upon his bosom.  The memory of the child’s former home and parents seemed to have faded almost entirely.  If the past ever came back to her, like a dream, with its mingled web of sunshine and tears, she never spoke of it.  Fully had she been taken into the hearts and home of her now parents; and she rested there as one having a right to her position.

And the pure spirit who presided over this little Paradise, where was she?  Present—­observing all, and sharing in the delight her husband’s return had occasioned.  The expected kiss had not long been kept from her loving lips.

Happy household!  What have its inmates to envy in those around them?  Within the circle of many squares were none so rich in all the elements of happiness.

Soon after the evening meal was over, the children, after another merry romp with their father, went off to bed.  When Mrs. Claire returned from the chamber, whither she had accompanied them, she held a letter in her hand.

“I had forgotten all about this letter, Edward,” said she.  “It was left here for you, this afternoon.”

Claire took the letter and broke the seal, running his eye down to the signature as he unfolded it.

“Leonard Jasper!  What is this?”

His brow contracted instantly, as he commenced reading the letter.  It was brief, and in these words—­

“Mr. Edward Claire—­Sir:  From this time I relieve you of the burden of my ward, Fanny Elder.  Mrs. Jasper and myself have determined to take her into our own family, in order that we may give the needful care to her education.  Call around and see me to-morrow, and we will arrange this matter.  Yours, &c.  Leonard Jasper.”

The face of the young man had become pale by the time he had finished reading this letter; but that of his wife, who did not yet know a word of its contents, was almost white—­the effect produced on her husband filling her with a vague alarm.

“What is it, Edward?” she asked, in a low, eager whisper.

“Jasper wants us to give up Fanny.”

Edith sank into a chair, exclaiming—­

“Oh, Edward!”

“But she is only ten years of age,” said the husband, “and our contract is to keep her until she is twelve.”

“We cannot give her up,” murmured Edith, tears already beginning to flow over her cheeks.  “I never thought of this.  What can it mean?”

“Some sudden determination on the part of Jasper, and based on nothing good,” was the reply.  “But, as I said, our contract is binding until Fanny is twelve years of age, and I will never consent to its being broken.  He was over anxious to hold me in writing.  He did not value his own word, and would not trust mine.  It was well.  The dear child shall remain where she is.”