"There's Jim," said I to Edith—
"And papa! and papa!—oh, it is papa—my own papa"—and she rushed to the door with the speed of an antelope.
How can I describe to you that meeting, when I couldn't see it for my tears? but I heard kisses and sobs, thick and fast, and the words, "Dear papa," and "My blessed, lost Edith."
Well, nothing would do, but Jim and I must go home and see mamma, too, who had never been outside of the door since her poor little girl was taken away.
We drove to the house—Edith, and I and Jim, staying below stairs, while Mr. G—— went to prepare his wife for the joyful news.
Presently we heard a heavy fall upon the floor. The joy was too intense. Edith's mother had fainted! She opened her eyes—it was not a dream! There was her little lost darling before her! She held her at arm's length—she clasped her to her breast—she kissed my hands—then she ran weeping to her husband—then back to Edith, till the pantomime became too painful.
"Je-ru-sa-lem!" said Jim.
[ THE BROKER'S WINDOW BY GASLIGHT. ]
Last evening I was walking in Broadway. The shop windows were brilliant with gas, and bright silks, and satins, and jewels were all spread out in the windows in the most tempting manner; all was gayety, bustle, hurry, drive, and confusion; omnibuses, carts, carriages, drays, military, music; people flocking to concerts, shows, and theatres; people flocking in town, and people flocking out; fashions in one window—coffins in the next; beggars and millionaires, ministers and play-actors, chimney-sweeps and ex-presidents, all in a heap.