had come to this very unemphatic party, and examined the whole room carefully to see what was the object of our visit.  A maid came in and removed the rest of the breakfast things, leaving the cloth still on the table, and some of the spoons and knives, with the salt-cellars, in their places.  When she had finished and gone out, there was a silence, only broken by the crackling of the paper as the old man folded it.  Presently the old lady said:  “I wish Charles could get his holiday a little sooner; he looks so tired, and he does not eat well.  He does stick so hard to his business.”

“Yes, dear, he does,” said the old man, “but it is just the busiest time, and he tells me that they have had some large orders lately.  They are doing very well, I understand.”

There was another silence, and then the old lady put down her letter, and looked for a moment at a picture, representing a boy, a large photograph a good deal faded, which hung close to her—­underneath it was a small vase of flowers on a bracket.  She gave a little sigh as she did this, and the old man looked at her over the top of his paper.  “Just think, father,” she said, “that Harry would have been thirty-eight this very week!”

The old man made a comforting sort of little noise, half sympathetic and half deprecatory.  “Yes, I know,” said the old lady, “but I can’t help thinking about him a great deal at this time of the year.  I don’t understand why he was taken away from us.  He was always such a good boy—­he would have been just like Charles, only handsomer—­he was always handsomer and brighter; he had so much of your spirit!  Not but what Charles has been the best of sons to us—­I don’t mean that—­no one could be better or more easy to please!  But Harry had a different way with him.”  Her eyes filled with tears, which she brushed away.  “No,” she added, “I won’t fret about him.  I daresay he is happier where he is—­I am sure he is—­and thinking of his mother too, my bonny boy, perhaps.”

The old man got up, put his paper down, went across to the old lady, and gave her a kiss on the brow.  “There, there,” he said soothingly, “we may be sure it’s all for the best;” and he stood looking down fondly at her.  Amroth crossed the room and stood beside the pair, with a hand on the shoulder of each.  I saw in an instant that there was an unmistakable likeness between the three; but the contrast of the marvellous brilliance and beauty of Amroth with the old, world-wearied, simple-minded couple was the most extraordinary thing to behold.  “Yes, I feel better already,” said the old lady, smiling; “it always does me good to say out what I am feeling, father; and then you are sure to understand.”