Isabel bent down and kissed the happy face upon her bosom. As she lifted her eyes again, they fell upon the strange musician, who, disturbed by voices that he recognized, had moved toward them unnoticed.

"Who, who is this, Mary Fuller? I remember the face. No, no, it's one of Guido's heads that has bewildered me. Surely I never saw anything living like that before. It is Guido's Michael in repose. Look up, Mary, and tell me who this young man is."

Isabel spoke in a low voice, regarding the youth with a look of mingled admiration and surprise, while the tears still sparkled on her cheeks.

Mary looked up; her eyes kindled, and she smiled proudly through her tears.

"Isabel? Can't you remember something that you have seen before in his face?"

"I don't know. The memory of a picture I saw at Rome blinds me. Who is it, say?"

"Hush, Isabel! you will grow sad when I tell you. That night when you and I watched"--

"Yes," answered Isabel, drooping her head, "I shall never forget that night."

"Do you remember who was with us, Isabel?"

"That angel boy."

"Yes, Isabel. It is Joseph Esmond."

"Oh! this is too much happiness. All of us together again," and with her arm still flung caressingly over Mary's shoulder, Isabel Chester moved toward the youth; but she was checked by the capacious person of uncle Nat, who came between her and her object with a look of strange interest on his face. His hands were clasped, and you could see the plump fingers working nervously around each other; while his eyes filled and shone with anxious tenderness. At length, after a long gaze, his chest swelled like the heave of an ocean wave; his hands fell apart, and he murmured softly, as if speaking only to himself.

"It is little Anna's boy!"

"Who speaks my mother's name?" inquired the youth, in his low, gentle way; "surely some one is near that I ought to love."

"Ought to love?" cried uncle Nat, seizing the hand which had been half extended. "Ought to love? Why it would be again nature and the Lord's Providence, if you didn't love Nathan Heap, the old man that"--

Uncle Nat checked himself; a crowd had gathered around him; but the feelings he was constrained to suppress broke forth in two large tears that rolled down his broad cheeks.

"Nephew," he sobbed, shaking the hand that he still grasped, "you're welcome to the Old Homestead. Neighbors," he added with dignity, "suppose you make out the evening with blind-man's-buff, or Who's-got-the-b.u.t.ton? This is my own nephew, that I haven't seen since he was a baby. You won't expect him to play any more to-night; he's tired out; and I"--

The old man's lips began to tremble, and tears came again to his eyes, and coursed rapidly after those that had fallen. He shook his head; tried to go on without success; and taking Joseph by the hand led him toward the door.

"Stop, just one minute, now, till I've done a little chance of business," cried the constable, creeping out from a corner of the barn, where the husked ears had been piled, and planting himself, like a pert exclamation point, before the old man. "I've got to make a levy on this corn heap," he said; "the oxen out yonder, and sundry other goods and chattels about the Old Homestead. I want to do everything fair and above board, so just wait to see the law executed."

Uncle Nathan paused, half wondering, half shocked at the man's words.

"What! the corn that my kind neighbors have just husked? the oxen I brought up from steers? who has a right to take them?"

"There's the writ. All correct you'll find. Madam Farnham claims a right to her own, and I'm here to see that she gets it."

"Madam Farnham, my mother!" cried young Farnham, indignantly. "Knave, you slander my mother."

"You'll find it there," said the little constable, dashing the back of his dirty hand against the open writ. "Your mother, if she is your mother, authorized me to buy up all claims agin uncle Nat here and aunt Hannah, six months ago; and I've done it. Five hundred and ten dollars with costs."

"Come with me," answered the young man, sternly. "Isabel, go to the house with Salina. I will return."

He took the constable by the arm and led him out, followed by hoots and cheers from the young farmers.

Uncle Nathan stood for a moment, dumb with amazement; then he drew a deep breath and grasped his nephew's hand more firmly.

"It seems as if the Old Homestead was falling around us," he said, "but so long as a shingle is left, it shall shelter my sister Anna's son."

And he led the young man forth into the starlight.

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE MOTHER, THE SON, AND THE ORPHAN

Age is august, and goodness is sublime, When years have given them a solemn power.

But souls that grow not with advancing time, Like withered fruit, but mock life's opening flower.

"Mother!"

"My son, don't speak so loud; you quite make me start; and with these delicate nerves you know a shock is quite dreadful--why don't you say mamma, softly, with the pure French p.r.o.nunciation, and an Italian tone; that's the proper medium, Fred. 'Mother!' I did hope, after travelling so many years, that you would have forgotten the word."

"No, mother; I have not lost the dear old English of that word, and pray G.o.d that I never may. Still more do I hope never to lose that respect, that affection, which should make the name of mother a holy thing to every son."

"My dear son, don't you understand that affection uttered in vulgar language loses its--its--yes, its perfume, as I may express it. Now there is something so sweet in the word mamma, so softly fraternal--in short, I quite hear you cry from your little crib with its lace curtains, when you utter it."

"Mother, let us be serious a moment."

"Serious, my child? What on earth do you want to be serious for?"

Here young Farnham took a paper from his pocket, and held it before his mother's face. "Mother, what is this? Did you authorize the purchase of these claims against the helpless old man and woman down yonder?" he said.

Mrs. Farnham turned her head aside, and taking a crystal flask from the table before her, refreshed herself languidly with its perfume.

"Did you authorize this, madam?" cried the young man, impatiently, dashing one hand against the paper that he held in the other. "This purchase, and after that the seizure of the old man's property?"

"Dear me, how worrying you are," answered the lady, burying the pale wrinkles of her forehead in the lace of her handkerchief; "how can I remember all the orders with regard to a property like ours?"

"But do you remember _this_?"

"Why, no, of course I don't," cried the lady, with a flush stealing up through her wrinkles, as the miserable falsehood crept out from her heart; "of course the man did it all on his own account, there's no medium with such people. Certainly it was his own work. What do I know about business?"

The young man looked at her sternly. She had not deceived him, and a bitter thought of her utter unworthiness made the proud heart sink in his bosom.

"Mother," he said, coldly, and with a look of profound sorrow, "whoever has been the instigator, this is a cruel act; but I have prevented the evil it might have done."

"_You_ prevented it, how?" cried the mother, starting to her feet, white with rage, all her langour and affectation forgotten in the burst of malicious surprise, that trembled on her thin lips, and gave to her pale, watery eyes the expression, without the brilliancy, that we find in those of a trodden serpent. "What have you done, I say?"

"I paid the money!"