more gentle, thoughtful, and considerate! how self-denying and self-sacrificing! how patient, forbearing, and forgiving!

"It is, however, fortunate," exclaimed Mr. Seymour, suddenly breaking in upon her reflections, "that the time for our going to London is so near-perhaps we may have less difficulty with him there."

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Perhaps," sighed Mrs. Seymour, mechanically, without well knowing what she was saying.

"If he once gets into his old set again," proceeded the gentleman, almost cheerfully, after he had thought for a minute, "all will be well; the remembrance of former associations and pleasures will prove too strong for him;" and with this faint hope he consoled himself.

But even in London disappointment awaited him; for he found that Herbert's erewhile companions had entirely lost their influence over him, and not all their united persuasions could induce him to return to the frivolous pursuits which occupied their own time and attention.

His (Herbert's) days and nights were spent in a very different manner. On every hand he saw want and suffering, destitution and misery, oppression and despair; and many a happy hour he spent in striving to lift the fallen from the mire of sin, to soothe and comfort the sorrowing, alleviate the distresses of the afflicted, and minister to the necessities of those who were undergoing privation and suffering. It would not be easy to describe Mr. Seymour's feelings when, at the close of the season, they returned to Mertonsville. He was botn irritated and irritable; and, while he conceived that Herbert had given him just cause of indignation by opposing his wishes and defeating his expectations, the fact of his being unable to offer any tangible reason for his anger served only to deepen the resentment he unfortunately bore him.

His anger was not expressed by words-for he seldom addressed his son now-but the heavy, louring brow, his sullenness and taciturnity, his perseverance in repelling the young man's well-meant advances, his utter indifference as to where and how he spent his time, and the pettishness with which he often turned away when he saw him approaching, gave abundant and convincing proof of the bitter feelings he nourished towards him.

Had they been alone together, this state of things could scarcely have continued; but, as the whole summer was spent either in entertaining or visiting friends, Mr. Seymour and his son did not often meet, except in the presence of others.

On one of these rare occasions, Herbert summoned up all his resolution, and made an earnest and eloquent attempt to soften his father's heart and overcome his ill-concealed displeasure; but the cold, sneering, almost mocking replies which he received caused him a bitter pang of anguish, and, besides showing him the hopelessness of the task he had set himself, presented Mr. Seymour's character in an entirely new and unfavourable light.

He was aware though he had previously shrunk from admitting the fact, even to his own heart-that a casual word or look had often proved strong enough to arouse his father's pride and indignation; and he also knew that when once irritated he could not be easily appeased. But he had hitherto formed no conception of the strength

and continuance of his animosity. He had considered him hasty and somewhat imperious; now, however, he appeared harsh, domineering, and overbearing. And it was only by making a violent effort that the young man was enabled to restrain himself from replying to his exasperating words.

About a week after this interview, Herbert found, on his return from a friend's house, where he had been spending a few days, that during his absence old Mrs. Gordon had been taken seriously ill. As soon as possible he hastened to visit her, and was grieved to notice the sad alteration which had been produced in her appearance. She was herself conscious that her end was fast approaching, and her one great desire was to employ the little time that yet remained in preparing for the important change which awaited her. She had been for many years a professing Christian; but, as her religion consisted of mere theoretic knowledge of gospel truths, it brought her no real comfort, no abiding peace, no solid joy. The precious privilege of leading her to the " grace of God," that bringeth full, free, and everlasting salvation, was reserved for Herbert; and eagerly she listened, and drank in every word; cheerfully renounced her own imperfect works, and "with a true heart, in full assurance of faith," drew near to God, pleaded His own gracious promises, and laid hold of the hope set before her in the gospel.

From that time forward her intercourse with Herbert was of a deeply interesting nature, for her progress in Divine things was very rapid. Every day she seemed to receive some fresh communication of spiritual enlightenment and understanding, and to become better acquainted with those treasures of wisdom and knowledge which are hid in Christ; every day she enjoyed sweet, intimate, soul-vitalising communion with God, and looked forward with joyful anticipation to the hour when she should see His face, and dwell for ever in His glorious presence.

Her life had not been one of uninterrupted tranquillity; for after the death of her husband, to whom she had been fondly attached, she was painfully tried by the undutiful conduct of her only son, a high-spirited lad, whose wild, ungovernable temper rendered him impatient of restraint, and led him to disobey her commands, and act contrary to her kindly expressed wishes, whenever he felt so disposed.

Each succeeding year, as it rolled away, found him more anxious to gratify his own sinful propensities, without bestowing a single thought upon the comfort or convenience of his widowed mother, whose stay and support he ought to have been; and at last, to add to her grief, in spite of her entreaties and remonstrances, he began to associate with several idle and dissipated young men in the neighbourhood; and, after a few weeks' intimacy, he agreed to accompany them to a foreign land.

Accordingly he watched his opportunity, and, without breathing a syllable of his intentions to any one, he rose from his bed one night, and, having made his clothes into a bundle, stealthily proceeded downstairs, where he quickly possessed himself of all Mrs. Gordon's little treasures, including her husband's watch, which she greatly prized, together with whatever money he could find; and then, trembling in every mb-for guilt transforms even the bravest men into poor, weak, abject cowards-he left the cottage which had sheltered him all his life, the mother who had nursed him in infancy, watched over

him in childhood, borne with the waywardness and ingratitude of youth, and loved him, notwithstanding his numerous and serious delinquencies.

Early the next morning his absence was discovered; for the empty drawers in his own chamber, the ransacked desk in the widow's little parlour, the missing watch and purse, told their significant tale, and filled poor Mrs. Gordon's heart with apprehension and dismay. She did not, however, waste her time in mere idle repinings; but, rallying her scattered energies, she quickly followed her truant son to the nearest seaport town, where she lost all trace of him, and her earnest and repeated inquiries regarding him elicited no satisfactory information, for she could neither find out by what vessel he had sailed, nor whither he was bound, and she returned to her cottage home at length, lonely, dejected, and desolate, to wait, and watch, and hope, and pray for the erring wanderer.

Fifteen long weary years had passed away since then, and the widow's hair had become white with age, and her brow furrowed by care. For fifteen years she had hoped against hope, patiently waited and fervently prayed for her absent son, and yet she knew not whether that son was numbered among the living or the dead.

Herbert frequently visited her during her last illness; and many a precious and profitable lesson she was the unconscious means of teaching him as her end drew near.

One day he went to her cottage as usual, and, to his delight, found her considerably better than she had been for many weeks.

But the same evening there was a large party at Mertonsville Park; and when Herbert was standing for a moment somewhat apart from the others, conversing earnestly with Charles Hastings, a servant approached him, and said in a low tone, "I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but a message has just been received from old Mrs. Gordon, who is, it seems, constantly asking for you; shall I say that you are engaged?

"By no means, Wilmot. If you will ask Dawson to get my horse ready, I will go to her immediately. I hope, however, that I shall not find her worse than usual."

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She is dying, sir," returned the man in an awe-stricken whisper. Dying!" repeated Herbert. Oh, I trust not. Charles," he continued, laying his hand lightly upon his friend's arm, "will you try to make my absence as little perceived as possible?"

"Of course I will do my best," answered Mr. Hastings, "but it appears to me that you are undertaking not only an unpleasant, but an unnecessary duty; for of what use can you be to the poor creature, if she is really dying?"

"Not much, I fear," said Herbert, gravely. "We are often

Doomed to stand inactive by,

Watching the soul's or body's agony,

Which human effort helps not to make less.'

And yet the heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.'"

This he said as if thinking aloud. He did not remember that his words might be taken in a double sense, until he caught sight of Charles Hastings' face of suppressed amusement, and heard him exclaim in accents of well-feigned consternation, after casting a

peculiarly expressive glance upon the gay crowd of pleasure-seekers around him,

"If this is the test of wisdom, I am afraid there is only one wise man amongst us-all the others are fools!"

Herbert could not stop to reply to his words; he quitted him, therefore, with a dissenting shake of the head, and quietly left the room and the house.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.

""Twas love, whose quick and ever-watchful eye

The wanderer's first step homeward did espy." TRENCH. On reaching Mrs. Gordon's cottage, Herbert was instantly admitted to the sick room. Though she had evidently gone through much and sharp suffering since he saw her in the morning, the widow's face was perfectly tranquil and serene in its expression; and notwithstanding her extreme bodily weakness, she was able to welcome him with something of her old warmth and satisfaction.

She fell back upon her pillow, however, immediately afterwards, faint and exhausted by the effort, and did not speak again for several minutes. Herbert, meanwhile, turned aside, and anxiously questioned her sister, who had been residing with her for some time past, regarding her condition; but the information she gave him was very discouraging, and he resumed his place near the dying woman's bed, and gazed earnestly upon the pale, worn face with a feeling of deep sadness. An expression of intense pleasure passed over those wasted features, when she next unclosed her eyes, and met the not-to-bemistaken look of disinterested grief and sincere sympathetic sorrow with which he was observing her.

"I thought you would come," she murmured in a feeble voice. "It pains me exceedingly to find you so much worse," replied the young man, gently. "What can I do for you?"

She pointed with a smile to her Bible, which lay on a chair close at hand. Herbert took the hint, and opening it at the fourteenth chapter of St. John, read aloud those precious soul-comforting words which Christ so tenderly addressed to His sorrowing disciples when about to leave them. She listened with hands clasped and eyes raised to heaven, repeating after him from time to time such passages as she most loved. Especially did she linger upon the verse—

"Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you not as the world giveth give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."

"Ah! if I had always remembered this," she said, and her voice seemed to grow stronger and stronger as she proceeded, "how much fruitless anxiety, vain regret, and unprofitable labour should I have been spared! How often has my own heart been weighed down under the depressing load of accumulated sorrow, when Christ was willing and waiting to bear it Himself! How unnecessarily troubled I have been! how needlessly fearful!"

""Old things

"But it is so no longer," replied Herbert, quickly. are passed away; behold, all things are become new.' "Yes, thank God !" responded the good woman, with astonishing earnestness. "No anxious cares oppress me now; for I have laid them all upon Jesus, and can safely leave everything in His gracious hands, feeling assured that whatever He does is-must be-well."