“Since yesterday I have learned that he was in the city less than a year ago—­and that Constance was living.  How my heart throbs!  Shall I see my own dear child again?  Theodore, I fear, is in very bad health, if still alive.  He had to give up a good situation about a year ago, as book-keeper in a large establishment here, where he was much esteemed, on account of his health giving way so fast under the confinement.  I believe he took another situation as salesman in a retail store, on a very small salary.  Some one told me that Constance had been under the necessity of taking in sewing, to help to get a living—­and all this time we had abundance all around us!  I call myself, ’wretch,’—­and so I would call any other man who would cast off his child, as I have done—­a tender flower to meet the cold winds of autumn.

“I have seen my child! my poor dear Constance!  But oh, how changed!  While passing along the street to-day, almost in despair of ever finding her—­a slender female, about the same height of Constance, passed me hastily.  There was something peculiar, I thought, about her, and I felt as I had never yet felt, while near a stranger.  I followed her, scarce knowing the reason why.  She entered a clothing-store, and I went in after her, and asked to look at some article, I scarce knew what.  Her first word startled me as would a shock of electricity.  It was my own child.  But I could not make myself known to her there.  She laid down upon the counter three vests, and then presented a small book. in which to have the work entered.  The entry was made, and the book handed back.

“‘There are just three dollars due you,’ said the man.

“‘Three-and-a-half, I believe it is, sir.’

“‘No, it’s only three.’

“‘Then I have calculated wrong.  I thought it was three-and-a-half.’

“How mournful and disappointed was her tone!

“After standing for some time looking over her book, she said in a lighter voice, ’well, I believe I am right.  See here; I have made twenty-eight vests, and at twelve-and-a-half cents each, that is three dollars and a half.’

“‘Well, I believe you are right,’ said the man, in a changed tone, after looking over the book again.

“‘Can you pay me to-day?  I am much in want of it.’

“’No, I can’t.  I have a thousand dollars to pay in bank, and I cannot spare anything before two or three days.’

“She paused a moment, and then went slowly towards the door; lingered for a short time, and then turned to the man again.  I then saw for the first time, for ten long years, her face.  How thin and pale it was! how troubled its expression!—­But it was the face of our dear Constance.  She did not look towards me; but turned again to the shop-keeper, and said,

“’Be kind enough, sir, to let me have one dollar.  I want it very much!’

“’You give me more trouble about your money than any other workman I have,’ said the man roughly, as he handed her a dollar.