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THE SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE; * 51 of Cljnuglit ank Conti for the Southern Literary Gazette. THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN. A TALE OF THE NEW YEAR. T3Y ALICE B. NEAL. CHAPTER I. “Isn’t it very cold this evening, mam ma r “Very cold, Addy. Tell nurse to see that the dining-room fire burns up bright ly, for papa will be chilled when he comes in.” Away ran the little girl upon her plea sant mission, for Ada was her father’s favourite, though this was never openly said. Still, the child was always the first to meet him upon the stairs, and she climbed to his knee after dinner, and went to sleep, if she liked, upon his shoulder. Nannie never did this, but Nannie was an odd, independent little creature, and did not care to be petted. “There is a nice fire in the dining room,” reported the breathless messen ger, coming back, with a more serious face; “but I looked into the study, and Jackson says he can’t tell how it happen ed, only his going to market about the poultry, and forgetting it since dinner, but there isn’t hardly any light m the grate. It made me shiver.” “Jackson must attend to it immediate ly.” “So he will, mamma—he is verv &or ry; and the poor woman looked so cold.” “The poor woman, Ada ?” “Yes, mamma, the poor woman wait ing for papa. 1 think she’s a lady, but she’s got on such a little shawl, and such an old bonnet. I wish you could see her eyes—such lovely eyes, and she spoke to me just as you would.” “And it’s so cold there, Ada, and your papa may not be here before seven. I wonder how Jackson came to be so care less. You’d better tell him to shew her into the dining-room.” “Stop a moment, though,” Mrs. Moore quickly, as Ada was hurrying away, delighted to have the poor lady made more comfortable. She was not naturally suspicious, but as the wife of a Judge in the criminal court, she hadlearnedtoo much of human error, not to be careful of “leading into temptation.” There was the supper ta ble already 7, spread, the silver tea service the heavy forks, and the access to the street so easy. She knew nothing of the person in waiting, but that she was a wo man and thinly clad. Still Ada was in terested in her, and she had great faith in the instincts of childhood. “You can tell Jackson to bring her up here,” said, Mrs. Moore, after a moment’s pause. “Or shew her the way yourself if you like.” Ada had said truly that the woman had lovely eyes. They were the charm of that thin, sad face, marked by lines of care, and want perhaps, for even in the glow of the pleasant nursery, she drew her shawl tightly over her arms. Mrs. Moore instinctively rose to meet her, and offered her the low cushioned chair bv the a/ fire-side. There was a gentle dignity about the visitor that at once commanded respect, and a sadness that besought pity. Those large mournful eyes! They haunted Mrs. Moore for many a day, for she read in them, of long and patient suffering. — She had seen much of distress and pover ty, for her husband had secured his pre sent position by the sterling justice and active benevolence, that had made him so essentially “a man of the people” — and his wife shared with him many of the sad secrets which this position made known to him. She had learned how want became a fearful tempter, and that repentance is often marred by cold injus tice. She did not turn with horror from recitals of error, for the sin against socie ty, but that society should goad the fallen from paths of peace, to the hard down ward way of the transgressor. There was something in the manner of the visitor that seemed to make inquiry into her story, obtrusive. So Mrs. Moore returned to her sewing again by the shaded gas light, and listened more eager- ly for her husband’s step. Sb ut tain that no ordinary * v 1 nad called her forth in this bleak night; there was a nervous impatience in the motion of the folded hands; and she studied the face of the mantel clock anxiously as the mo ments slipped by. Nurse came to close the shutters, and for a moment a chill blast swept through the room. A few light snow flakes were falling, the precur. sors of the coming storm; the twilight sky, was dull and impenetrable, and the trees in the opposite square bent with a moaning sound. Mrs. Moore drew the w arm folds of her dressing gown over her slippered feet, and the poor woman sighed. “It is a bitter night,” she said, “even for those at their own firesides.” “But w r on’t the sun shine to-morrow, mamma ? Doesn’t the sun always shine on New Year’s day?” asked little Nan nie, who, up to this time, had been ob serving the visitor very quietly from her seat on the hearth-rug. “Not always, Nannie.” “Oh ! it will not be nice at all,” said the child. “Why it w 7 as pleasant Christ mas day, I’m sure it ought to be pleasant to-morrow.” “You are a bad reasoner, little lady,” answered Mrs. Moore, playfully. “Be cause some holidays are pleasant, all must be. You should be contented with a part in sunshine.” The woman raised her hand as she said this, and looked around the room —so warm, so bright, aad these beautiful child ren ; then she turned towards Mrs. Moore, with her calm ways and winning smile, dressed in such exquisite taste for an eve ning when all visitors had been denied ; the cashmere dressing gown drawn close ly to her light figure by its silken girdle, and its crimson lining giving it such a comfortable air. Her dark hair was half concealed by a little cap, because her hus band liked to see her wear them —it made her look so matronly, he said—and as she raised her hand now and then to thread her needle, or admire the progress of‘her work, a brilliant glistened in the