But time had healed that wound too, until from the sunny slopes of France, where his home had so long been, his heart had often leaped across the sea in quest of those same children now prattling in his ear and calling him Uncle Dick.  There was another, a dearer name by which they might have called him, but he knew now that ’twas not for him to be thus addressed.  And still he felt something like a father’s love stealing into his heart as he wound his arms around the little forms, giving back kiss for kiss, and asking which was like their mother.

“Ain’t none of us much,” Dick replied, “We’re like father and Aunt Nina, hanging on the wall in the library.  Mother’s got big black eyes, with winkers a rod long, and her hair shines like my velvet coat, and comes most to her feet.”

Richard smiled, und was about to speak again, when Dick forestalled him by asking—­not if he had him something but where it was.

“It’s in your trunk, I guess,” he said, as his busy fingers investigated every pocket and found nothing savoring of playthings, except a knife, both blades of which were opened in a trice, and tried upon the window sill!

Richard, who, never having known much of children, had not thought of presents, was sorely perplexed, when luckily Victor returned, bringing a paper of molasses candy, which he slyly thrust into his master’s hand, whispering to him,

“They always like that.”

Victor had calculated aright, for nothing could have pleased the St. Claires more; and when, as she entered at the door, Edith caught sight of her offspring, she hardly knew them, so besmeared were their little faces with molasses, Nina having wiped her hands first upon her hair and then rubbed them upon Richard’s knee, while Victor looked on a little doubtful us to what the mother might say.

“There’s mam-ma,” Nina cried, trying to shake back her curls, which nevertheless stuck lightly to her forehead.  “There’s mam-ma,” and in an instant Little Dick, as he was called, found himself rather unceremoniously set down upon his feet, as Richard adjusted his shade, and resumed the air of helplessness so natural to the blind.

Edith had been to New York with Marie and the children, leaving the former there for a few weeks, and was now on her way home, whither she hoped ere long to welcome Richard, whom she had never seen since the night of her marriage, when Victor led him half fainting from the altar.  He would not join them at the breakfast next morning, but sent them his good-bye, and when they returned from their long, happy bridal tour they found a letter for them saying Richard was in Paris.

Regularly after that they heard from him, and though he never referred to the past, Edith knew how much it cost him to write to one whom he had loved so much.  Latterly, however, his letters had been far more cheerful in their tone, and it struck Edith that his hand-writing too, was more even than formerly, but she suspected nothing and rather anticipated the time when she should be eyes for him again, just as she used to be.  He had said in his last letter that he was coming home ere long, but she had no idea that he was so near, and she wondered what tall, greyish haired gentleman it was who had taken possession of her seat.