The blue eyes of Mr. Dayton sparkled as he paused in his recital, running his fingers through his hair, and for a time evidently wandering in the labyrinthine walks of the soul’s mathematics, whose beautifully defined laws might make all things straight, and it was only the sight of John’s towering form in the doorway that roused him, and he said: 

“I have brought to you Davies’ Legendre.  I thought he would receive more thanks in the years to come than now, for is it not always so?  Are not those who move beyond the prescribed limits of the circle of to-day, unappreciated, and must we not often wait for the grave to cover their bodies, and their lives to be written, ere we realize what their hearts tried to do for us?  It is a sad fact, and one which shapes itself in the mould of a selfish ignorance, which covers as a crust the tender growing beauty of our inner natures.

It was a cold day in December, 1856, when we were startled to see Jane coming over the hill in such a hurried way that we feared something was the matter with the children.  These children were dear to me.  Hal and Mary had a beautiful boy two and a half years old, but no bud had as yet nestled against my heart.

I met her at the gate and asked, “What’s the matter with the children?”

“Go into the house, Emily De-mond, ’taint the children, it’s me.”  She wanted us all to sit down together.

“Oh! dear, dear me, what can I do?  I’m out of my head almost.”

We gathered together in the middle room, and waited for her to tell us, but she sat rocking, as if her life depended on it, full five minutes before she could speak—­it seemed an hour to me—­finally she screamed out: 

“He’s come back!”

“Whom do you mean?” I cried, while mother and Aunt Hildy exchanged glances.

“He came last night; he’s over to the Home, Miss Patten, d’ye hear?”

“Jane,” said Aunt Hildy in a voice that sounded so far away it frightened me, “do you mean Daniel?”

“Yes, yes; he’s come back, and he wants me to forgive him, and I must tell it, he wants me to marry him.  I sat up all night talkin’ and thinkin’ what I can do.”

“Jane,” said Aunt Hildy, in that same strange voice, “has he got any news?”

“Both of ’em dead.  Oh, Miss Patten, you’ll die, I know you’ll die!”

“No, I shan’t.  I died when they went away.”

“What can I do, Miss Patten?  Oh, some of you do speak!  Mis’ De-mond, you tell; you are allus right.”

Clara crossed the room, and kneeling on the carpet before her, said: 

“My dear soul, is it the one you told me of?”

“Yes, yes,” said Jane, “the very one; gall and worm-wood I drank, and all for him; he ran away and—­”

“Yes,” added Aunt Hildy, “tell it all.  Silas and our boy went with him, father and son, and Satan led ’em all.”

“Has he suffered much?” said Clara.