“Edward, how do you come?”

“As a sober man.  As a true husband and father, I trust, to my wife and child; to banish sorrow from their hearts, and wipe the tears from their eyes.  Will you receive me thus?”

He had but half finished, when Mrs. Lee sprang towards him, and fell sobbing in his outstretched arms.  She saw that he was in earnest, she felt that he was in earnest, and once more a, gleam of sunshine fell upon her heart.

Years have passed, and no cloud has yet dimmed the light that then dawned upon the darkness of Mrs. Lee’s painful lot.  Her husband is fast rising, by industry and intelligence, towards the condition in life which he had previously occupied; and she is beginning again to find herself in congenial associations.  May the light of her peaceful home never again grow dim.

GOING HOME.

“IT’S nearly a year, now, since I was home,” said Lucy Gray to her husband, “and so you must let me go for a few weeks.”

They had been married some four or five years, and never had been separated, during that time, for twenty-four hours at a time.

“I thought you called this your home,” remarked Gray, looking up, with a mock-serious air.

“I mean my old home,” replied Lucy, in a half-affected tone of anger.  “Or, to make it plain, I want to go and see father and mother.”

“Can’t you wait three or four months, until I can go with you?” asked the young husband.

“I want to go now.  You said all along that I should go in May.”

“I know I did.  But I thought I would be able to go with you.”

“Well, why can’t you go?  I am sure you might, if you would.”

“No, Lucy, I cannot possibly leave home now.  But if you are very anxious to see the old folks, I can put you into the stage, and you will go safe enough.  Ellen and I can take care of little Lucy, no doubt.  How long a time do you wish to spend with them?”

“About three weeks, or so.”

“Very well, Lucy; if you are not afraid to go alone, I will not say a word.”

“I am not afraid, dear,” said the wife, in a voice changed and softened in its expression.  “But are you perfectly willing to let me go, Henry?”

“Oh, certainly,” was the reply, although the tone in which the words were uttered had something of reluctance in it.  “It would be selfish in me to say, no.  Your father and mother will be delighted to receive a visit just now.”

“And you think that you and Ellen can get along with little Lucy?”

“Oh yes, very well.”

“I should like to go, so much!”

“Go, then, by all means.”

“But won’t you be very lonesome without me?” suggested Lucy, in whose own bosom a feeling of loneliness was already beginning to be felt at the bare idea of a separation from her husband.

“I can stand it as long as you,” was Gray’s laughing reply to this.  “And then I shall have our dear little girl.”