But Mrs. Wheaton's was a strong nature.
"It is nothing," she said, and she turned slowly to the stranger. "Let your coming to this house on a New-Year's morning—though you knew not who its inmates were—be an earnest of your kind feeling for them, and let us be united in the wish for the happiness of my child and the child of your dead sister."
The stranger had advanced and raised Mrs. Wheaton's hand for a moment to his lips.
"To-morrow I take ship to return to the far Indies; but my wishes and prayers shall always be for the happiness of these children, and—the peace of mind of Annie—my Dolores loved and lost."
The last words were spoken in a husky whisper, and none saw the tear that fell on Mrs. Wheaton's ice-cold hand. Her own eyes were dry; and though she had not lowered them, she felt the tear burning its way into her very soul.
Mr. Wheaton's cheery voice roused her.
"The boy, children—have you all forgotten about the boy? Matilda's son, sir," shaking Charlie by the hand, "a fine, healthy boy. One of the family now, Charlie—come and see."
But who can blame Charlie for declining to go? His uncle had left the house, and Aunt Myrick had gone with Mrs. Wheaton up-stairs, there to renew the friendship broken off years ago, because of the lonely man who was standing at this moment, gazing far out on the restless, ever-changing sea.
We could not be indiscreet enough to play eavesdropper after everybody but Lola and Charlie had left the parlor, but we have it on good authority that Uncle Barton is to be present at the wedding ceremony before taking ship again for the far Indies.