old man’s prejudices remained strong—­he was not prepared to yield; and Markland’s self-love having been deeply wounded by Mr. Howland, he was not disposed to make any advances toward healing the breach that existed.  As for Mary, she cherished too deeply the remembrance of her father’s unbending severity toward his children—­in fact his iron hand had well nigh crushed affection out of her heart—­to feel much inclined to use any influence with her husband.  And so the separation, unpleasant and often painful to both parties, continued.  To Mrs. Howland it was a source of constant affliction.  Much had she done toward affecting a reconciliation; but the materials upon which she tried to impress something of her own gentle and forgiving spirit were of too hard a nature.

On the afternoon of the day on which Andrew returned so unexpectedly, almost like one rising from the dead, Mrs. Howland was alone, Martha having gone out to visit a friend.  She was sitting in her chamber thinking of the long absent one—­she had thought of him a great deal of late—­when she heard the street door open and shut, and then there came the sound of a man’s feet along the passage.  She bent her head and listened.  It was not the sound of her husband’s feet—­she knew his tread too well.  Soon the man, whoever he was, commenced ascending the stairs; then he came toward her door, and then there was a gentle tap.  The heart of Mrs. Howland was, by this time, beating violently.  A moment or two passed before she had presence of mind sufficient to go to the door and open it.

“Andrew!  Andrew!  Oh, Andrew, my son!” she cried, in a glad, eager voice, the instant her eyes rested on the fine figure of a tall, sun-burnt man, and as she spoke, she flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him with all the fondness of a mother caressing her babe.

“Mother! dear, dear mother!” came sobbing from the lips of Andrew, as he returned her embrace fervently.

“Am I dreaming? or, is this all really so?” murmured the happy mother, pushing her son from her, yet clinging to him with an earnest grasp, and gazing fondly upon his face.

“It is no dream, mother,” returned Andrew, “but a glad reality.  After a long, long absence I have come back.”

“Long—­long!  Oh, it has been an age, my son!  How could you?  But hush, my chiding heart!  My wandering one has returned, and I will ask no questions as to his absence.  Enough that I look upon his face again.”

Andrew now led his mother to a seat, and taking one beside her, while he still held her hand tightly, and gazed with a look of tenderness into her face, said—­

“You have grown old in nine years, mother; older than I had thought.”

“Do you wonder at it, my son?” significantly inquired Mrs. Howland.

“I ought not to wonder, perhaps,” replied Andrew, a touch of sadness in his voice.  “There is such a thing as living too fast for time.”