It was a stormy November night, many years ago, in an old town in old England. Without, the wind howled and the rain poured, but within the happy and comfortable home of Doctor Annesley, all was quiet, warmth, and brightness. A cheerful circle was gathered round the hearth. There was Doctor Annesley himself, a tall, handsome man, standing in the ruddy firelight, tossing the baby in his arms, while two young children, a boy and a girl, stood before him, one affectionately clasping his knee, yet both, with their father, listening respectfully to their Grandpapa, old Sir Hugh Annesley, who was relating a story of his boyhood. By a table sat Mrs. Annesley, the Doctor's good and beautiful wife, busy with her sewing, yet not too busy to attend to the low-voiced talk of her eldest son, a noble boy of about ten years.
"It seems so strange, mamma," he said, "to think of Grandpapa ever having been a little boy like me! 'tis harder a great deal, than to think of my tall papa as small, like brother Harry, because he has such long beautiful hair, and such a full, rosy face, and can laugh and play as merrily as any boy. So could Uncle Philip. But Grandpapa has thin, white hair, and such dim, deep eyes—he stoops and trembles, and looks very sad sometimes. He scarcely ever plays with us, and never laughs in the merry way he used to, when Uncle Philip told him funny stories. I wish Uncle Philip would come home! Why don't he, mamma?"
"Hush, Herbert!" said Mrs. Annesley in a low tone, "remember, I have told you to be very careful not to speak of him before your Grandpapa. Your Uncle Philip was a wild, passionate, self-willed boy, and though we all loved him dearly, he has caused us much sorrow by his misconduct. He was Grandpapa's youngest, darling son, yet gave him a great deal of trouble by refusing to do as he wished to have him; and finally, almost broke his heart, by running away from college, and going to sea. Several years have passed since we heard from him, and it is sorrow and anxiety about him, more than old age, that has whitened dear Grandpapa's hair, dimmed his eyes, and bowed him toward the grave. This, my love, is the reason that you must not speak of your Uncle Philip."
Just at this moment there came a quick ring at the door, and a servant soon entered, bringing a message to the Doctor. A sailor, just off the sea, was thought to be dying of fever at the hospital, and had sent for him.
Dr. Annesley did not hesitate for an instant to leave the comfort and pleasant talk he was enjoying, to go where duty called him through the tempestuous night, and not one of his loving family thought of murmuring or remonstrating. He did not return until morning, and then he brought some one with him, wrapped in shawls and blankets—his patient—whom he lifted carefully from the carriage in his strong arms, carried gently into the house and laid on a bed, in a room which had long been unoccupied, but which Mrs. Annesley, at her husband's request, had prepared for an invalid inmate, that very morning.
About half an hour after this arrival, Dr. Annesley entered his father's chamber. He found the good old man sitting by his window, reading over the Psalms, in a low, fervent tone. He was so absorbed that he did not notice the approach of his son, till a hand was laid gently on his shoulder.
"Why bless me, Hugh," he exclaimed, "how you startled me! pray what brings you here so early?"
"Unusual business, dear father," replied the Doctor, "I have something of much moment to tell you. Do you think you can bear it?"
"I will try," answered the old man bracing himself, yet trembling visibly.
"Well, father, the young sailor whom I was called to see last night, was—"