“Ninny’s mad!” whispered Dunbar; “she’s the old girl for making a noise.”

“Joy!  Joy!” bawled out the old woman, now running breathlessly toward us.  “The masther’s come—­the masther’s come!”

“Where?—­where?”

“Jist above in the wood.  Goodness gracious!  I have run to let you know—­so fast—­that my heart—­is like to—­break.”

Without stopping to comfort poor Jenny, off started the children and myself, at the very top of our speed; but I soon found that I could not run—­I was too much agitated.  I got to the head of the bush, and sat down upon a fallen tree.  The children sprang forward like wild kids, all but Donald, who remained with his old nurse.  I covered my face with my hands; my heart, too, was beating audibly; and now that he was come, and was so near me, I scarcely could command strength to meet him.  The sound of happy young voices roused me up; the children were leading him along in triumph; and he was bending down to them, all smiles, but hot and tired with his long journey.  It was almost worth our separation, that blissful meeting.  In a few minutes he was at home, and the children upon his knees.  Katie stood silently holding his hand, but Addie and Dunbar had a thousand things to tell him.  Donald was frightened at his military dress, but he peeped at him from behind my gown, until I caught and placed him in his father’s arms.

His leave of absence only extended to a fortnight.  It had taken him three days to come all the way from Lake Erie, where his regiment was stationed, at Point Abino; and the same time would be consumed in his return.  He could only remain with us eight days.  How soon they fled away!  How bitter was the thought of parting with him again!  He had brought money to pay the Y—–­y’s.  How surprised he was to find their large debt more than half liquidated.  How gently did he chide me for depriving myself and the children of the little comforts he had designed for us, in order to make this sacrifice.  But never was self-denial more fully rewarded; I felt happy in having contributed in the least to pay a just debt to kind and worthy people.  You must become poor yourself before you can fully appreciate the good qualities of the poor—­before you can sympathise with them, and fully recognise them as your brethren in the flesh.  Their benevolence to each other, exercised amidst want and privation, as far surpasses the munificence of the rich towards them, as the exalted philanthropy of Christ and his disciples does the Christianity of the present day.  The rich man gives from his abundance; the poor man shares with a distressed comrade his all.