# The Vicar of Wakefield/Volume 2/Chapter 22

CHAP. III.
Offences are easily pardoned where there is love at bottom.
The next morning I took my daugh­ter behind me, and set out on my return home. As we travelled along, I strove, by every persuasion, to calm her sorrows and fears, and to arm her with reso­lution to bear the presence of her offended mother. I took every opportunity, from the prospect of a fine country, through which we passed, to observe how much kin­der heaven was to us, than we were to each other, and that the misfortunes of nature's making were very few. I assured her, that she should never perceive any change in ​my affections, and that during my life, which yet might be long, she might depend upon a guardian and an instructor. I armed her against the censures of the world, shew­ed her that books were sweet unreproach­ing companions to the miserable, and that if they could not bring us to enjoy life, they would teach us to endure it.
The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at an inn by the way, within about five miles from my house, and as I was willing to prepare my family for my daughter's reception, I determined to leave her that night at the inn, and to come for her, accompanied by my daughter So­phia, early the next morning. It was night before we reached our appointed stage: however, after seeing her provided with a decent apartment, and having ordered the hostess to prepare proper refreshments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards home. My heart caught new sensations of pleasure ​the nearer I approached that peaceful mansion. As a bird that has been fright­ed from its nest, my affections out-went my haste, and hovered round my little fire-side, with all the rapture of expectation. I called up the many fond things I had to say, and anticipated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my wife's tender em­brace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I walked but slowly, the night wained apace. The labourers of the day were all retired to rest; the lights were out in every cottage; no sounds were heard but of the shrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed watch-dog, at hollow distance. I approach­ed my little abode of pleasure, and before I was within a furlong of the place, our honest mastiff came running to welcome me.
It was now near mid-night that I came to knock at my door: all was still and si­lent: my heart dilated with unutterable hap​­piness, when, to my amazement, the house was bursting out in a blaze of fire, and every apperture was red with conflagration! I gave a loud convulsive outcry, and fell upon the pavement insensible. This alarm­ed my son, who perceiving the flames, in­stantly waked my wife and daughter, and all running out, naked, and wild with ap­prehension, recalled me to life with their anguish. But it was only to objects of new terror; for the flames had, by this time, caught the roof of our dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while the family stood, with silent agony, looking on, as if they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed upon them and upon it by turns, and then looked round me for my two little ones; but they were not to be seen. O misery! "Where," cried I, "where are my little ones?"—"They are burnt to death in the flames," says my wife calmly, "and I will die with them."—That moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who were just awak​­ed by the fire, and nothing could have stopped me. "Where, where, are my children?" cried I, rushing through the flames, and bursting the door of the cham­ber in which they were confined, "Where are my little ones?"—"Here, dear papa, here we are," cried they together, while the flames were just catching the bed where they lay. I caught them both in my arms, and snatched them through the fire as fast as possible, while just as I was got out, the roof sunk in. "Now," cried I, holding up my children, "now let the flames burn on, and all my possessions perish. Here they are, I have saved my treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we shall yet be happy." We kissed our little darlings a thousand times, they clasped us round the neck, and seemed to share our transports, while their mother laughed and wept by turns.
​I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some time, began to per­ceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched in a terrible manner. It was there­fore out of my power to give my son any assistance, either in attempting to fave our goods, or preventing the flames spreading to our corn. By this time, the neighbours were alarmed, and came running to our assistance; but all they could do was to stand, like us, spectators of the calamity. My goods, among which were the notes I had reserved for my daughters fortunes, were entirely consumed, except a box, with some papers, that stood in the kitchen, and two or three things more of little consequence, which my son brought away in the begin­ning. The neighbours contributed, how­ever, what they could to lighten our distress. They brought us cloaths, and furnished one of our out-houses with kitchen utensils; so that by day-light we had another, tho' a wretched, dwelling to retire to. My honest next ​neighbour, and his children, were not the least assiduous in providing us with every thing necessary, and offering what ever consolation untutored benevolence could suggest.
When the fears of my family had sub­sided, curiosity to know the cause of my long stay began to take place; having therefore informed them of every particular, I proceeded to prepare them for the recep­tion of our lost one, and tho' we had no­thing but wretchedness now to impart, yet to procure her a welcome to what we had. This task would have been more difficult but for our recent calamity, which had humbled my wife's pride, and blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being una­able to go for my poor child myself, as my arm now grew very painful, I sent my son and daughter, who soon returned, support­ing the wretched delinquent, who had not courage to look up at her mother, whom ​no instructions of mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation; for women have a much stronger sense of female error than men. "Ah, madam," cried her mother, "this is but a poor place you are come to after so much finery. My daughter So­phy and I can afford but little enter­tainment to persons who have kept com­pany only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss Livy, your poor father and I have suffered very much of late; but I hope heaven will forgive you."—During this reception, the unhappy victim stood pale and trembling, unable to weep or to re­ply; but I could not continue a silent spec­tator of her distress, wherefore assuming a degree of severity in my voice and manner, which was ever followed with instant sub­mission, "I entreat, woman, that my words may be now marked once for all: I have here brought you back a poor deluded wanderer; her return to duty demands the revival of our tenderness. The ​real hardships of life are now coming fast upon us, let us not therefore encrease them by dissention among each other. If we live harmoniously together, we may yet be contented, as there are enough of us here to shut out the censuring world, and keep each other in countenance. The kind­ness of heaven is promised to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the example. Heaven, we are assured, is much more pleased to view a repentant sinner, than many persons who have supported a course of undeviating rectitude. And this is right; for that single effort by which we stop short in the down-hill path to perdition, is itself a greater exertion of virtue, than an hundred acts of jus­tice."