Murray's portly figure, and strong,
sensible Scotch face, beaming with pleasure, relieved by a background of
dusky faces, lighted up with joy and expectation.
Mr. Dinsmore alighted first, gave his hand to his wife, and leaving young
Horace to attend to Rosebud, hastened to meet his father.
The old man tottered forward and fell upon his neck, weeping bitterly. "My
son, my boa, my only one now; I have lost all--everything--wife, sons,
home; all swept away, nothing left to my old age but you."
"Yes, that's it always," sneered a sharp voice near at hand; "daughters
count for nothing; grandchildren are equally valuable. Sons, houses, and
lands are the only possessions worth having."
"Enna, how can you!" exclaimed Mrs. Howard.
But neither father nor brother seemed to hear, or heed the unkind,
unfilial remark. The old man was sobbing on his son's shoulder; he
soothing him as tenderly as ever he had soothed wife or daughter.
"My home is yours as long as you choose to make it so, my dear father; and
Roselands shall be restored, and your old age crowned with the love and
reverence of children and children's children."
Hastily recovering himself, the old gentleman released his son, gave an
affectionate greeting to Rose, and catching sight of young Horace, now a
handsome youth of nineteen, embraced him, exclaiming, "Ah, yes, here is
another son for me! one of whom I may well be proud.
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