J. COLE. 69

hair. He stood with his hat in his hand, look-
ing down as if afraid to speak.

“Oh, pray come in,” I cried, going forward
to meet him. “I know who you are. Oh,
have you brought me any news of poor Joe?
We are all his friends here, his true friends,
and you must let us be yours too in this
trouble. Have you seen him?”

At my words the bowed head was lifted up,
and then I saw Dick’s face as it was. If ever
truth, honor, and generosity looked out from
the windows of a soul, they looked out of
those large blue eyes of Dick’s—eyes so ex-
actly like Joe’s in expression, that the black
lashes instead of the fair ones seemed wrong
somehow.

“God bless you, lady, for them words,” said
Dick; and before I could prevent it, he had
knelt at my feet, caught my hand and pressed
it to his lips, while wild sobs broke from him.

“Forgive me,” he said, rising to his feet,
and leaning with one hand on the back of a
chair, his whole frame shaking with emotion.
“Forgive me for givin’ way like this; but
I’ve seen them papers about our Joe, and I