Mr. Hardwick was sitting in the corner, but rose up with a new energy
as he heard the well-known voice. Mark was not prepared, even by his
cousin's foreboding letter, to see such a change as his uncle
exhibited;--the hollow eyes, the wasted cheeks, the bent figure, the
trembling hands, bore painful testimony to his enfeebled condition. He
held both of Mark's hands in his, and, while his eyes were dim in a
tear-mist, said, with a faltering voice, "Bless you, m-my boy! I'm
glad to see you once more. I thought I might hear my s-summons before
you'd come. You do remember your old uncle!"

Mark could not restrain himself, but wept outright. The old gentleman
sank into his chair, still clasping Mark's hands. Neither could speak,
but they looked towards each other an unutterable tenderness.

At length, controlling the tide of feeling, Mr. Hardwick
said,--"D-don't be cast down, Mark; these tears are not b-bitter, but
f-full of joy. Th-there, now, go and kiss your sister and Lizzie."

The girls appeared wiping their eyes, for they had left the room
overpowered; they greeted Mark affectionately, and then all sat down
about the hearth. Topics enough there were. Mark told of his pursuits
and prospects. The village gossip about the lost servant-girl, (of
whom Mark knew something, but had reasons for silence,) the
approaching marriage of Mrs. Kinloch, and the exile of the heiress
from her own home, were all discussed. After a reasonable time, Mark
excused himself and went to Mr. Alford's, pondering much on the
strange events that had perplexed the usually quiet village. He
reached the house, after a brief walk, and was met by Aunt Mercy, the
portly mistress, but with something less than her accustomed