“How soon do you expect him to return?” was inquired of the servant.

“He may be here in half an hour; or not before ten o’clock,” was the reply.

Wilkinson was disappointed.  Leaving his name with the servant, and saying that he would probably call again during the evening, he descended the steps and walked away.  He was moving in the direction of his home, and had arrived within a block thereof when he stopped, saying to himself as he did so—­

“I must see Elbridge this evening.  It is already nearly half an hour since I left home, and I promised Mary that I would not remain away a moment longer than that time.  But, I did not think Elbridge would be out.  Poor Mary!  She looks at me with such sad eyes, sometimes, that it goes to my very heart.  She cannot bear to have me out of her sight.  Can she doubt me in any thing?  No; I will not believe that.  She is a loving, gentle-minded creature—­and one of the best of wives.  Ah me!  I wish I were more like her.”

Still Wilkinson remained standing, and in debate with himself.

“I will go home,” said he, at length, with emphasis, and walked quickly onward.  He was within a few doors of his own home, when his steps began to linger again.  He had come once more into a state of irresolution.

“Perhaps Elbridge has returned.”  This thought made him stop again.  “He must have understood me that I would be around.”

Just at this moment the crying of a child was heard.

“Is that Ella?” Wilkinson walked around a little way, until he came nearly opposite his own house.  Then he stopped to listen more attentively.

Yes.  It was the grieving cry of his own sick babe.

“Poor child!” he murmured.  “I wonder what can ail her?”

He looked up at the chamber windows.  The curtains were drawn aside, and he saw upon the ceiling of the room the shadow of some one moving to and fro.  He did not doubt that it was the shadow of his wife, as, with their sick babe in her arms, she walked to and fro in the effort to soothe it again to sleep.  Had there been a doubt, it would have been quickly dispelled, for there came to his ears the soft tones of a voice he knew full well—­came in tones of music, low and soothing, but with most touching sweetness.  It was the voice of his wife, and she sang the air of the cradle-hymn with which he had been soothed to rest when he lay an innocent babe in his mother’s arms.

The feelings of Wilkinson, a good deal excited by the struggle between affection and duty on the one side, and appetite and inclination on the other, were touched and softened by the incident, and he was about entering his house when the approaching form of a man, a short distance in advance, caught his eye, and he paused until he came up.

“Elbridge!  The very one I wished to see!” he exclaimed, in a low voice, as he extended his hand and grasped that of his friend.  “I’ve just been to your house.  Did you forget that I was to call around?”