A year had rolled wearily by since Logan went off, and still no word had come from the absent husband.  Labor beyond her bodily strength, and trouble and grief that were too severe for her spirit to bear, had done sad work upon the forsaken wife and disowned child.  She was but a shadow of her former self.

Mr. Crawford had been very shy of the old Quaker, who had spoken so plainly to him; but his words made some impression on him, though no one would have supposed so, as there was no change in his conduct towards his daughter.  He had forewarned her of the consequences, if she acted in opposition to his wishes.  He had told her that he would disown her forever.  She had taken her own way, and, painful as it was to him, he had to keep his word—­his word that had ever been inviolate.  He might forgive her; he might pity her; but she must remain a stranger.  Such a direct and flagrant act of disobedience to his wishes was not to be forgotten nor forgiven.  Thus, in stubborn pride, did his hard heart confirm itself in its cold and cruel estrangement.  Was he happy?  No!  Did he forget his child?  No.  He thought of her and dreamed of her, day after day, and night after night.  But-he had said it, and he would stick to it!  His pride was unbending as iron.

Of the fact that the husband of Fanny had gone off and left her with two children to provide for with the labor of her hands, he had been made fully aware, but it did not bend him from his stern purpose.

“She is nothing to me,” was his impatient reply to the one who informed him of the fact.  This was all that could be seen.  But his heart trembled at the intelligence. (sic) Neverthless, he stood coldly aloof month after month, and even repulsed, angrily, the kind landlady with whom Fanny boarded, who had attempted, all unknown to the daughter, to awaken sympathy for her in her father’s heart.

One day the old Friend, whose plain words had not pleased Mr. Crawford, met that gentleman near his own door.  The Quaker was leading a little boy by the hand.  Mr. Crawford bowed, and evidently wished to pass on; but the Quaker paused, and said—­

“I should like to have a few words with thee, friend Crawford.”

“Well, say on.”

“Thee is known as a benevolent man, friend Crawford.  Thee never refuses, it is said, to do a deed of charity.”

“I always give something when I am sure the object is deserving.”

“So I am aware.  Do you see this little boy?”

Mr. Crawford glanced down at the child the Quaker held by the hand.  As he did so, the child lifted to him a gentle face, with mild earnest loving eyes.

“It is a sweet little fellow,” said Mr. Crawford, reaching his hand to the child.  He spoke with some feeling, for there was a look about the boy that went to his heart.