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The merchant had resumed his seat, and although he had listened attentively to the Quaker’s brief history, he did not make any reply, but soon became lost in thought. From this he was interrupted by his visitor, who said, as he moved towards the door–

“I will bid thee good morning, friend Edwards.”

“One moment, if you please,” said the merchant, arousing himself, and speaking earnestly, “Where does Mary Belgrave live?”

The Friend answered the question, and, as Mr. Edwards did not seem inclined to ask any more, and besides fell back again into an abstract state, he wished him good morning and retired.

The poor girl was sitting alone in her room sewing, late in the afternoon of the day on which the incident at the auction room occurred, musing, as she had mused for hours, upon the unexpected adventure. She did not, in the excitement of the moment, know Mr. Edwards when he first tendered her the miniature; but when he said with peculiar emphasis and earnestness, turning away as he spoke–“Keep it, in Heaven’s name!” she recognized him fully. Since that moment, she had not been able to keep the thought of him from her mind. They had been intimate friends at one time; but this was while they were both very young. Then he had professed for her a boyish passion; and she had loved him with the childish fondness of a young school-girl. As they grew older, circumstances separated them more; and though no hearts were broken in consequence, both often thought of the early days of innocence and affection with pleasure.

Mary sat sewing, as we have said, late in the afternoon of the day on which the incident at the auction room occurred, when there was a tap at her door. On opening it, Mr. Edwards stood before her. She stepped back a pace or two in instant surprise and confusion, and he advanced into the desolate room. In a moment, however, Mary recovered herself, and with as much self-possession as, under the circumstances, she could assume, asked her unexpected visitor to take a chair, which she offered him.

Mr. Edwards sat down, feeling much oppressed. Mary was so changed in everything, except in the purity and beauty of her countenance, since he had seen her years before, that his feelings were completely borne down. But he soon recovered himself enough to speak to her of what was in his mind. He had an old aunt, who had been a friend of Mary’s mother, and from her he brought a message and an offer of a home. Her carriage was at the door–it had been sent for her–and he urged her to go with him immediately. Mary had no good reason for declining so kind an offer. It was a home that she most of all needed; and she could not refuse one like this.

“There is another unredeemed pledge,” said Mr. Edwards, significantly, as he sat conversing with Mary about a year after she had found a home in the house of his aunt. Allusion had been made to the miniature of Mary’s mother.

“Ah!” was the simple response.

“Yes. Don’t you remember,” and he took Mary’s unresisting hand–“the pledge of this hand which you made me, I cannot tell how many years ago?”

“That was a mere girlish pledge,” ventured Mary, with drooping eyes.

“But one that the woman will redeem,” said Edwards confidently, raising the hand to his lips at the same time, and kissing it.

Mary leaned involuntarily towards him; and he, perceiving the movement, drew his arm around her, and pressed his lips to her cheek.

It was no very long time afterwards before the pledge was redeemed.