Little more than two years have passed away since the September
afternoon when the deep-toned bell rang out the merry tidings,
"Maude can see--Maude can see," and again upon the billow another
vessel rides. But this time to the westward; and the beautiful lady,
whose soft, dark eyes look eagerly over the wave says to her
companion, "It is very pleasant going home."
They had tarried for a long time in Italy, both for Louis' sake and
because, after the recovery of her sight, Maude's health had been
delicate, and her husband would stay until it was fully re-
established. She was better now; roses were blooming on her cheek--
joy was sparkling in her eye--while her bounding step, her ringing
laugh, and finely rounded form told of youthful vigor and perfect
health.
And they were going home at last--James, Louis, and Maude--
going to Hampton, where Mrs. De Vere awaited so anxiously their
coming. She did not, however, expect them so soon, for they had left
England earlier than they anticipated, and they surprised her one
day; as she sat by her pleasant window gazing out upon the western
sky and wondering how many more suns would set ere her children
would be with her. It was a happy meeting; and after the first joy
of it was over Maude inquired after the people at Laurel Hill.
"It is more than four months since we heard from them," she said,
"and then Mrs. Kennedy's letter was very unsatisfactory. The doctor,
she hinted, had lost his senses, but she made no explanation. What
did she mean?"
"Why," returned Mrs. De Vere, "he had a paralytic shock more than
six months ago."
"Oh, poor father," cried Louis, while Mrs. De Vere continued, "It
was not a severe attack, but it has impaired his health somewhat.
You knew, of course, that his house and farm were to be sold."
"Our house, our old home! It shall not be!" and the tears glittered
in Louis' eyes, while, turning to Mrs. De Vere, Maude whispered
softly, "His wife has ruined him, but don't let us talk of it before
Louis."
The lady nodded, and when at last they were alone, told all she knew
of the affair. Maude Glendower had persisted in her folly until her
husband's property was reduced to a mere pittance. There was a heavy
mortgage upon the farm, and even a chattel-mortgage upon the
furniture, and as the man who held them was stern and unrelenting,
he had foreclosed, and the house was to be sold at auction. "Why has
mother kept it from us?" said Maude, and Mrs. De Vere replied,
"Pride and a dread of what you might say prevented her writing it, I
think.