'But come in, and see how well we have arranged things. Will they be here soon?'
Sam made no reply to Susan's last question, but followed her immediately into the house.
They were all soon collected in the parlor, expatiating on the beauty of the place, and were beginning to ask Sam a variety of questions, when James all at once left the room; and Sam, drawing from his pocket a packet neatly enveloped, his parents and sisters looked at him, expecting some new disclosure.
'My dear parents: I have practised a little deception upon you, for the first time in my life, which I hope you will pardon when you hear the nature of it. This house, which you have been arranging, does not belong to any stranger, as you have been led to think—it is all your own; and here, my dear father, is the deed which makes it and the ground around it your's for ever,' handing to his wonder-stricken parent the paper he had in his hand.
Mr. Oakum took the paper, but was so overcome with amazement, that he could say nothing; he looked at his wife, who, for a moment, sat with her hands clasped before her, her eyes strained in their intense gaze on her darling boy. She then sprang to clasp him in her arms, but the girls were before her, and were hanging around his neck, and fairly smothering him with their fond embrace. Sam put out his arms to receive his mother, and she fell upon his neck, and burst into tears.
'Oh, Sam! my dear Sam! may God bless you for ever and ever.'
His father, overcome by the rush of his own excited feelings and the outburst of affection on the part of the mother and sisters, dropped the paper, and leaning on his hands, could only shed tears of joy. It was not the beautiful gift—valuable as it was—nor the sudden flow of prosperity, that raised them at once from a poor and decayed tenement to a dwelling equal in respectability to the best in the place; thoughts far richer to a parent's heart were thrilling his bosom, and working up his feelings into intense and overpowering emotion. To find in the man who stood before him in his strength and ardor, the same kind, loving, feeling fondness that the boy had manifested—in fine, to know that prosperity and manhood had not changed his boy—it was enough: earth had no better good, heaven could give no richer earthly solace. And could that son have heard the thoughts which rose in gushing ardor to the throne on high, and could his vision but have burst the veil which hides that secret place where thoughts are registered, he would have felt that a recompense already had been treasured for him beyond the reach of venture or decay.
Sam had made but little calculation as to the effect of this surprise, either on his parents or himself. He had often, in boyish days, even when all around was dark and forbidding, amused himself with visions of the future, of all that he might be and do, and in every fancy sketch, his mind portrayed for the comfort of his parents; the joy which, in some unexpected way, might be infused into their spirits, was ever the prominent figure in the scene. This object, now so happily accomplished, had been his aim for years: for this he had resisted his inward impulse to go abroad and visit distant climes, and seek a fortune more genial to his bounding spirit; steadily had he pursued his calling, and faithfully labored and stored away his earnings with almost a miser's care, to gratify this heaven-born, filial love, and in some hour of exquisite delight enjoy his long, long-treasured wish. And now that hour had come. He had opened the floodgates of happiness upon these dear objects of his affection, and was overpowered himself. He sat down beside his mother, and mingled his tears with her's.
But why has Mary left the scene? and why has she gone with such haste to that little upper room? and why does she clasp her hands, and raise her eye to heaven, and shed such tears as now overflow those long dark lids and bathe her lovely cheek? Another token these of that deep feeling which her secret heart so long has nourished; that room is pleasant now, for hither she has come, in this moment of heart-felt bliss, to pour out her heaving thoughts in gratitude to God; and there she hopes, in days and years to come, to send up the incense so pleasing unto Him who loves a contrite heart.
Mary had much to think of; no longer could she hide from herself the fact that she loved James Montjoy; and every word which he had said, and which had caused her so much inward pain, was now a source of new and heart-felt joy, and it was impossible for her to misunderstand those allusions which so plainly pointed to herself; and yet she would say, 'He was only in jest; he knew it must all come out—he meant nothing by it, nothing particular.' Thus ruminating, and with a happy heart, she passed lightly down the little staircase and along the hall, as James was returning from a stroll in the garden, to which, out of delicacy for the feelings of the family, he had retired, just as Sam was about to make the disclosure.