"But we shall hear from him, I presume?"
"I think so. He is intimate with my friend Mr. Easelmann.—But, mother, I have some more good news. I shall get our property back. Lawyers say that Mr. Tonsor will be obliged to give up the notes, and look to the estate of Sandford for the money he lent. And the notes, fortunately, are as valuable as ever, in spite of all the multitude of failures; one name, at least, on each note is good."
"Everything comes back, like Job's prosperity. This repays us for all our anxiety."
"If Alice had not run away!"
"But we shall have her again,—poor motherless child!"
So with mutual gratulations they passed the evening. My readers who now enjoy a mother's love, or look back with affectionate reverence to such scenes in the past, will pardon these apparently unimportant portions of the story. Sooner or later all will learn that no worldly success whatever, no friendships, not even the absorbing love of wife and children, can afford a pleasure so full, so serene, as the sacred feeling which rises at the recollection of a mother's self-sacrificing affection.
Very commonplace, no doubt,—but still worth an occasional thought. As for those who demand that natural and simple feelings shall be ignored, and that every chapter shall record something not less startling than murder or treason, are there not already means for gratifying their tastes? Do not the "Torpedo" and the "Blessing of the Boudoir" give enough of these delicate condiments with the intellectual viands they furnish? Let old-fashioned people enjoy their plain dishes in peace.
CHAPTER XXXI.
The reader may be quite sure that Greenleaf lost no time in presenting himself at Easelmann's studio on the morning after his last interview.
"On hand early, I see," said the elder. "And how fresh you look! The blood comes dancing into your face; you are radiant with expectation."