“Lawrence Newt!”

He shook her hand warmly, and made little remarks, while she seemed to be studying into his face, as if she were looking for something she did not find there.  Every body did it.  Every body looked into Lawrence Newt’s face to discover what he was thinking of, and nobody ever saw.  Mrs. Simcoe remembered a time when she had seen.

“It is more than twenty years since I saw you.  Have I grown very old?” asked he.

“No, not old.  I see the boy I remember; but your face is not so clear as it used to be.”

Lawrence Newt laughed.

“You compliment me without knowing it.  My face is the lid of a chest full of the most precious secrets; would you have the lid transparent?  I am a merchant.  Suppose every body could look in through my face and see what I really think of the merchandise I am selling!  What profit do you think I should make?  No, no, we want no tell-tale faces in South Street.”

He said this in a tone that corresponded with the expression which baffled Mrs. Simcoe, and perplexed her only the more.  But it did not repel her nor beget distrust.  A porcupine hides his flesh in bristling quills; but a magnolia, when its time has not yet come, folds its heart in and in with over-lacing tissues of creamy richness and fragrance.  The flower is not sullen, it is only secret.

“I suppose you are twenty years wiser than you were,” said Mrs. Simcoe.

“What is wisdom?” asked Lawrence Newt.

“To give the heart to God,” replied she.

“That I have discovered,” he said.

“And have you given it?”

“I hope so.”

“Yes, but haven’t you the assurance?” asked she, earnestly.

“I hope so,” responded Lawrence Newt, in the same kindly tone.

“But assurance is a gift,” continued she.

“A gift of what?”

“Of Peace,” replied Mrs. Simcoe.

“Ah! well, I have that,” said the other, quietly, as his eyes rested upon the portrait.

There was moisture in the eyes.

“Her daughter is very like her,” he said, musingly; and the two stood together silently for some time looking at the picture.

“Not entirely like her mother,” replied Mrs. Simcoe, as if to assert some other resemblance.

“Perhaps not; but I never saw her father.”

As Lawrence Newt said this, Mrs. Simcoe raised her hand, opened it, and held the miniature before his eyes.  He took it and gazed closely at it.

“And this is Colonel Wayne,” said he, slowly.  “This is the man who broke another man’s heart and murdered a woman.”

A mingled expression of pain, indignation, passionate regret, and resignation suddenly glittered on the face of Mrs. Simcoe.

“Mr. Newt, Mr. Newt,” said she, hurriedly, in a thick voice, “let us at least respect the dead!”

Lawrence Newt, still holding the miniature in his hand, looked surprised and searchingly at his companion.  A lofty pity shot into his eyes.