Mrs. Logan was lying upon her bed.

“I do not feel able to get up,” she replied.  “I do not wish to ride out.”

“Oh, yes, you must go.  The pure, fresh air, and the change, will do you more good than medicine.  Come, Mrs. Logan; I will dress little Julia for you.  She needs the change as much as you do.”

“Where is Henry?” asked the mother.

“He has not returned yet.  But, come!  The carriage is waiting at the door.”

“Won’t you go with me?”

“I would with pleasure—­but I cannot leave home.  I have so much to do.”

After a good deal of persuasion, Fanny at length made the effort to get herself ready to go out.  She was so weak, that she tottered about the floor like one intoxicated.  But the woman with whom she lived, assisted and encouraged her, until she was at length ready to go.  Then the Quaker came up to her room, and with the tenderness and care of a father, supported her down stairs, and when she had taken her place in the vehicle, entered, with her youngest child in his arms, and sat by her side, speaking to her, as he did so, kind and encouraging words.

The carriage was driven slowly, for a few squares, and then stopped.  Scarcely had the motion ceased, when the door was suddenly opened, and Mr. Crawford stood before his daughter.

“My poor child!” he said, in a tender, broken voice, as Fanny, overcome by his unexpected appearance, sunk forward into his arms.

When the suffering young creature opened her eyes again, she was upon her own bed, in her own room, in her old home.  Her father sat by her side, and held one of her hands tightly.  There were tears in his eyes, and he tried to speak; but, though his lips moved, there came from them no articulate sound.

“Do you forgive me, father?  Do you love me, father?” said Fanny, in a tremulous whisper, half rising from her pillow, and looking eagerly, almost agonizingly, into her father’s face.

“I have nothing to forgive,” murmured the father, as he drew his daughter towards him, so that her head could lie against his bosom.

“But do you love me, father?  Do you love me as of old?” said the daughter.

He bent down and kissed her; and now the tears fell from his eyes and lay warm and glistening upon her face.

“As of old,” he murmured, laying his cheek down upon that of his child, and clasping her more tightly in his arms.  The long pent up waters of affection were rushing over his soul and obliterating the marks of pride, anger, and the iron will that sustained them in their cruel dominion.  He was no longer a strong man, stern and rigid in his purpose; but a child, with a loving and tender heart.

There was light again in his dwelling; not the bright light of other times; for now the rays were mellowed.  But it was light.  And there was music again; not so joyful; but it was music, and its spell over his heart was deeper and its influence more elevating.