There was a vague impression in the Newt family—­Boniface had already mentioned it to his son Abel—­that there was something that Uncle Lawrence never talked about—­many things indeed, of course, but still something in particular.  Outside the family nothing was suspected.  Lawrence Newt was simply one of those incomprehensibly pleasant, eccentric, benevolent men, whose mercantile credit was as good as Jacob Van Boozenberg’s, but who perversely went his own way.  One of these ways led to all kinds of poor people’s houses; and it was upon a visit to the widow of the clergyman to whom Boniface Newt had given eight dollars for writing a tract entitled “Indiscriminate Almsgiving a Crime,” that Lawrence Newt had first met Amy Waring.  As he was leaving money with the poor woman to pay her rent, Amy came in with a basket of comfortable sugars and teas.  She carried the flowers in her face.  Lawrence Newt was almost blushing at being caught in the act of charity; and as he was sliding past her to get out, he happened to look at her face, and stopped.

“Bless my soul! my dear young lady, surely your name is Darro!”

The dear young lady smiled and colored, and replied,

“No, mine is not, but my mother’s was.”

“Of course it was.  Those eyes of yours are the Darro eyes.  Do you think I do not know the Darro eyes when I see them?”

And he took Amy’s hand, and said, “Whose daughter are you?”

“My name is Amy Waring.”

“Oh! then you are Corinna’s daughter.  Your aunt Lucia married Mr. Bennet, and—­and—­” Lawrence Newt’s voice paused and hesitated for a moment, “and—­there was another.”

There was something so tenderly respectful in the tone that Amy, with only a graver face, replied,

“Yes, there was my Aunt Martha.”

“I remember all.  She is gone; my dear young lady, you will forgive me, but your face recalls other years.”  Then turning to the widow, he said, “Mrs. Simmer, I am sure that you could have no kinder, no better friend than this young lady.”

The young lady looked at him with a gentle inquiry in her eyes as who should say, “What do you know about it?”

Lawrence Newt’s eyes understood in a moment, and he answered: 

“Oh, I know it as I know that a rose smells sweet.”

He bowed as he said it, and took her hand.

“Will you remember to ask your mother if she remembers Lawrence Newt, and if he may come and see her?”

Amy Waring said Yes, and the gentleman, bending and touching the tips of her fingers with his lips, said, “Good-by, Mrs. Simmer,” and departed.

He called at Mrs. Waring’s within a few days afterward.  He had known her as a child, but his incessant absence from home when he was younger had prevented any great intimacy with old acquaintances.  But the Darros were dancing-school friends and partners.  Since those days they had become women and mothers.  He had parted with Corinna Darro, a black-eyed little girl in short white frock and short curling hair and red ribbons.  He met her as Mrs. Delmer Waring, a large, maternal, good-hearted woman.