The Old Homestead. Ann S. Stephens

hero; the only difficulty was, he never knew when to stop.

      Just in the height of the dance, when the needle-merchant was all in a glow, balancing to every lady, and getting up a sort of extemporaneous affair, made from old remembrances of "The Cheat" and "The Virginia Reel," the whole company stopped short, and he exclaimed—

      "Bless my soul!"

      And drawing forth a red silk handkerchief, he made a motion, as if his forehead wanted dusting.

      "Bless my soul!" he repeated, "Laura, my dear, have the goodness to look, my love."

      Mrs. Peters turned, and spite of her cameo defences, blushed guiltily.

      "Dear me, my nephew, Frederick Farnham, who would have expected this?" she exclaimed, instantly assuming her dignity, and gliding from among the dancers.

      "I couldn't help it, Aunt Peters, I know it is very impertinent for me to follow you up here, but how could you expect me to stay down yonder, with the floor trembling over head, and that violin—? I beg your pardon, sir," continued young Farnham, addressing Chester, "but the fact is, everything was so gloomy down stairs, and so brilliant; up here besides you left the door open as if you'd made up your mind to tempt a fellow into committing an impertinence."

      "Don't think of it, there's no intrusion—my wife has found a birth-day, and is making the most of it," answered Chester, advancing toward the door with his hand frankly extended.

      The youth stepped forward, and the light fell upon his face. His eyes lighted up splendidly as they fell on Chester.

      "What, my fine fellow, is it you?" he said, with a dash of young Americanism that was only frank, not assuming, while Chester exclaimed—

      "I'm glad to see you—heartily glad to see you—come in, come in."

      "Allow me," said Mrs. Peters, with a stately wave of the hand, "Mr. Chester, allow me to present Mr. Frederick Farnham, my nephew, and only son of the Mayor of New York—Mrs. Chester, Mr. Farnham."

      "Never mind all about that, aunt," said the boy, blushing at his pompous introduction, "this gentleman and I have met before—he knows my father."

      "Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Peters, coming out from his retirement, "I am delighted to hear it; nothing but this was wanting, my dear Chester. I'm charmed to have been found enjoying your hospitality. Laura, my dear, we are both charmed; my brother-in-law, the mayor, will be charmed also—in short, Fred, we are having a charming time of it."

      "I'm sure of it," answered Fred Farnham, pressing his uncle, and looking earnestly at Mary Fuller till his face became quite serious, then, turning to Chester, he said in a low voice, "so you keep the poor girl; I'm glad of it—that was what brought me here."

      No one had observed the artist while this interruption took place; but as the youth stepped into the light and spoke, a vertigo seized upon the old man, and staggering back to the wall he leaned against it, pale and with a wild expression in his eyes. When Mrs. Peters proclaimed the lad's name this strange agitation subsided somewhat and took a shade of sadness, as if some train of thought had been aroused that weighed down his spirits. He seemed to forget that his partner waited, and sat down by the window, sighing heavily.

      Mrs. Chester remarked this forgetfulness, and with a graceful smile invited young Farnham to take the place which the old man had abandoned. Fred smiled his assent, and the dance went on again; but just as the young musician began to play, there came a knock at the street door. Isabel ran down to open it, and came back with a letter in her hand.

      "It is for you, papa," she said, holding up the letter.

      "Very well, put it on the mantel-piece. Some direction from the captain or chief, I suppose," said Chester. "Come, Isabel, take your place."

      The little girl ran to her partner, and the dancing commenced again.

      During this interruption, young Farnham happened to come close up to the artist, and he was struck by the earnest gaze which the old man fixed on him. Some strange magnetic influence was in the glance, for it thrilled him from head to foot. He was seized with an unaccountable desire to hear the old man speak, but all his natural self-command forsook him. He could not find the courage to utter a word. Those dark, earnest eyes seemed to have taken away his strength.

      Joseph saw the strange pallor that had come upon his father's face, and, laying down his violin, crossed the room.

      "What is the matter, are you ill, father?" he inquired in his usual low voice, "or is it only the light? I thought you looked pale across the room."

      The artist cast quick wild glances from his son to young Farnham. At last he drew a heavy breath, and turned with a bewildered air to his son.

      "What did you ask, Joseph?"

      "Are you in pain? What is the matter, father?" repeated the lad.

      "Nothing—no; I—I am not used to this, you know," faltered the old man. "Do not mind me, I am well."

      Joseph went away, but cast wistful glances at his father over his violin. According to the unaccountable desire that had seized him, young Farnham heard the old man's voice. It ran through his veins with a glow, as if he had drained a glass of old wine, and it was some moments before he felt the thrill leave his nerves. Joseph took up his violin, but anxiety had depressed him, and his music lost its cheerfulness.

      The dancers took their places, but Fred Farnham still lingered by the artist. Another strange impulse seized him. He obeyed it and touched the hand that lay upon the old man's knee.

      The artist started, lifted his eyes and a smile broke over his face.

      "Excuse me," said the youth deprecatingly, "I did not intend it."

      Still the artist kept his eyes upon the boy, without speaking, but the smile grew sad as he gazed; and when Fred turned to go away, the hand he had touched was held eagerly forth.

      "Don't—don't leave me yet," said the old man in a low, pathetic voice.

      "I will come back again," said the youth gently. "I could not help it if I wished."

      Again the old man smiled, and, bowing his head, allowed the youth to regain his partner.

      When the set broke up it was to assemble round the fruitcake, which was cut up by Chester in broad, liberal slices, and then, after another dance, and a plaintive song from the widow, Chester's birth-day party broke up, leaving him alone with the family.

      The old artist waited at the head of the stairs, and young Farnham, who had remained a moment to speak with Chester, found him leaning against the banisters as he came out.

      "Good night," said the young lad with gentle respect, pausing in hope of being addressed.

      The artist took the extended hand, and held it between his, without speaking. Fred felt those old hands tremble.

      "Shall I never see you again?" inquired the artist.

      "Will you let me come and see you?" asked the lad joyfully.

      "Come, come! it will be like the break of day after a dark night."

      "I will come," said the youth earnestly.

      Still the artist kept the boy's hand in his clasp. At length he bent forward and kissed the lad upon his forehead.

      "God bless you—the God of Heaven bless you!" he said in a low, solemn voice, and the old man glided away through the dark hall, leaving Frederick strongly affected by the interview.

      With all her cheerfulness, Mrs. Chester was a little weary after her guests departed, and leaned against the mantel-piece, longing to sink into the rocking-chair which the old man had just abandoned.

      Chester approached his wife, and saw the letter lying at her elbow. A moment of unaccountable dread came over him, but taking the note in his hand he broke the seal. Mrs. Chester was looking at him as he read the letter, she saw his face turn pale, then his eyes began to flash.