George did not lunch with the others.  Yram explained that he had to draw up a report which would occupy him till dinner time.  Her three other sons, and her three lovely daughters, were there.  My father was delighted with all of them, for they made friends with him at once.  He had feared that he would have been disgraced in their eyes, by his having just come from prison, but whatever they may have thought, no trace of anything but a little engaging timidity on the girls’ part was to be seen.  The two elder boys—­or rather young men, for they seemed fully grown, though, like George, not yet bearded—­treated him as already an old acquaintance, while the youngest, a lad of fourteen, walked straight up to him, put out his hand, and said, “How do you do, sir?” with a pretty blush that went straight to my father’s heart.

“These boys,” he said to Yram aside, “who have nothing to blush for—­see how the blood mantles into their young cheeks, while I, who should blush at being spoken to by them, cannot do so.”

“Do not talk nonsense,” said Yram, with mock severity.

But it was no nonsense to my poor father.  He was awed at the goodness and beauty with which he found himself surrounded.  His thoughts were too full of what had been, what was, and what was yet to be, to let him devote himself to these young people as he would dearly have liked to do.  He could only look at them, wonder at them, fall in love with them, and thank heaven that George had been brought up in such a household.

When luncheon was over, Yram said, “I will now send you to a room where you can lie down and go to sleep for a few hours.  You will be out late to-night, and had better rest while you can.  Do you remember the drink you taught us to make of corn parched and ground?  You used to say you liked it.  A cup shall be brought to your room at about five, for you must try and sleep till then.  If you notice a little box on the dressing-table of your room, you will open it or no as you like.  About half-past five there will be a visitor, whose name you can guess, but I shall not let her stay long with you.  Here comes the servant to take you to your room.”  On this she smiled, and turned somewhat hurriedly away.

My father on reaching his room went to the dressing-table, where he saw a small unpretending box, which he immediately opened.  On the top was a paper with the words, “Look—­say nothing—­forget.”  Beneath this was some cotton wool, and then—­the two buttons and the lock of his own hair, that he had given Yram when he said good-bye to her.

The ghost of the lock that Yram had then given him, rose from the dead, and smote him as with a whip across the face.  On what dust-heap had it not been thrown how many long years ago?  Then she had never forgotten him? to have been remembered all these years by such a woman as that, and never to have heeded it—­never to have found out what she was though he had seen her day after day for months.