Mrs. Gaston had waited and waited with all the patience and fortitude she could summon, hour after hour, until the afternoon had advanced far toward evening. So anxious and restless had she now become, that she could no longer sit at her work. She had been standing at the window looking out and watching each approaching vehicle for some time, until she felt sick from constantly awakening hope subsiding in disappointment, when she turned away, and, seating herself by the bed, buried her face despondingly in the pillow. She had been sitting thus only a minute or two, when a slight noise at the door caused her to lift her head and turn in that direction. There stood a boy, with his eyes fixed upon her. For an instant she did not know him. Suffering, and privation, and cruel treatment had so changed him, even after all the doctor's efforts to eradicate their sad effects, that the mother did not at first recognize her own child, until his plaintive voice, uttering her name, fell upon her ear. A moment more, and he was in her arms, and held tightly to her bosom. Her feelings we will not attempt to describe, when he related in his own artless and pathetic manner, all and more than the reader knows in regard to his treatment at Mr. Sharp's, too sadly confirmed by the change im the whole expression of his face.
While her mind was yet excited with mingled feelings of joy and pain, Eugenia came in from her regular visit to her father. Her step was quicker, her countenance more cheerful and full of hope.
"Oh, Mrs. Gaston!" she said, clasping her hands together, "my father is so much better to-day, and they begin to give me great hopes of his full restoration. But who is this? Not your little Henry?"
"Yes, this is my poor, dear boy, whom I have gotten back once more," Mrs. Gaston said, the tears glistening upon her eyelids.
After a few words to, and in relation to Henry, the thoughts of Eugenia went off again to her father, and she spoke many things in regard to him, all of which bore a highly encouraging aspect. For the three or four days succeeding this, Mr. Ballantine showed stronger and stronger indications of returning reason; his daughter was almost beside herself with hope and joy.
Earlier than usual, one day about the second week in February, she went over to the asylum to pay her accustomed visit. She was moving on, after having entered the building, in the direction of the apartment occupied by her father, when an attendant stepped up, and touching her arm in a respectful manner, said—
"This direction, if you please."
There was something in the manner of the attendant that seemed to Eugenia a little mysterious, but she followed as he led the way. He soon paused at the door of an apartment, and half whispering in her ear said—
"Your father is in this room."
Eugenia entered alone. Her father was standing near the fire in an attitude of deep thought. He lifted his eyes as she entered, and looked her inquiringly in the face for some moments. She saw in an instant that he was greatly changed—that reason had, in fact, again assumed her sway over the empire of his mind.