Year: 1860

ing ofeuse at any thing might say.
And | went on, picturing to him the
promise Of bis boyhood, the love and ex-
pectation Of bis friends, the noble and
happy life he might have lived, and the
darkly contrasting career Of vice and
wretchedness TO which his youth had
been abandoned.


His staggering defiance was all gone,
and tears Of anguish and contrition ran
down his sun-burnt face.


| Il know it ali. know it ALL he said.
with sitting sobs. have thought of
my home until my heart yearns as if it
would break. But 1 don't dare to 90
there. l can't bear to have my sisters
see me so,-it would kill my mother /!
And my father viii never forgive meF
Your father is an excellent, kind
man. said.


i know that, but be is stern, and when
his mind IS made np. it is ike melting
granite to attempt to move him. wrote
him a few weeks ago, telling him L was
willing to come back. Here is his an
swer.'


Martin took letter from pocket of
his tattered coat, and gave it me TO read.


In hand that trembled with emotion.
in words that seemed all alive with the
grief of brokeu-hearted father, yet stern
as that fathers iron will,-the old man
had responded to his sons appeal.
Instead of money. he sent him re-
proaehes for the past and counsel for the
future. Instead of inviting him home
with loving welcome, be reminded him
of the many and earnest warnings with
which he had endeavored to check his
sons ruinous career.


You have despised those warnings
he said. You have reduced me almost
to beggary in my old age. I have sent
you to school in vain. 1 paid twelve
hundred dollars to keep you out of Jail,
when in fit of drunkenness you had set
fire to Squire Ames' house. I trusted
two thousand dollars to you, to set you
up in business. on your solemn pledges
I of fidelity and industry. You squander-
ed every cent of it. l have paid for
carriages you have broken, and for hor-
ses you have ruined by over-driving.-
How have I been rewarded for all this /?
What encouragement have l now to
send you money in your distress? You
have forfeited all claims upon me. Nev-
er send or come to me again for assist
anee. You have gone willingly from
my heart and my home, and your foIIies
have blocked up the way behind you
/ a few words of solemn entreaty that
Martin would by virtuous conduct re-
deem the past, concluded the inexorable
fathers letter.


You see, said the young man, who
had recovered himself, while I was read
ing there doesn't seem to be much
chance for me there. But something
has driven me back. It isn't my power
/ ty alone, for I could have done some
thing,-or l could have starved would
rather have starved but I was forced
to GOMEZ have walked more than a
hundred miles-I have begged by the
way-and now what am l here for?
came through the woods and across the
fields to your house,-for you are the
only man l dared to see, and I scarce
dared to see yen


Have courage! sad. The hand
Iof Providence is in ii. You have been
guided; it is for some wise purpose that
you have been led here. ali will be
well, l think


I conducted him, humbled and weep
ing ike child, to a room where he could
wash himself, and change his dress.
gave him clothes Of my own to put on.
Then l sent private message to his
mother, who lost no time, but FASTENED
to meet her son. / avoided being pre-
sent at their interview, but l could not
help overhearing the sobs of both behind
the closed door


/ When the sound of weeping had sub
sided, I knocked, and entered.


Mrs. Lockwood came forward to meet
me with extended hands, her face full Of
hope and gratitude, and fearful entreaty.
/ 4 thank you, thank you, for restor-
ing to me my childl' she exclaimed
with burst Of emotion. He is chang
ed-don't you see he is changed? He
was never SO humble, so softened-his
heart never opened TO me SO before-my
Martin, my Martin, be IS still my son
She turned from me 10 embrace once
more the young man, who nov sat viii


his head upon his breast, weary, crushed