to the
prodigal son. He determined at once to follow the advice so simply and
affectionately given. He closed his eyes and concentrated the energies
of his soul in mental prayer. The truths of the Bible were no longer to
him dim and unreal. They were distinct realities. He felt that it was no
vague desires and indefinite longings to which he was giving expression
in order to relieve his feelings. He was conscious of offering petitions
to a Being who was near at hand and not afar off.

The effort of mind and heart thus put forth was exhausting to his feeble
frame. It was followed by a quiet slumber. When Susan perceived that he
slept, she stole softly from the room, and hastened to acquaint her
father with her hopes respecting the preparation which her uncle was
making for his last journey.

CHAPTER XVIII.

WHEN Richard Clifton awoke from that slumber, an expression of calmness
rested upon his countenance. It was plain that deep despondency was no
longer pressing upon his heart. His strength slightly increased, so
that, on a very mild day for the season, the brothers once more sat
beneath the walnut which had shaded their sports in childhood. The
direction which was given to their conversation by Richard was most
gratifying to his brother. They spoke of the blessed example and pious
teachings of their sainted father. Henry was astonished to find how
deeply those teachings had been engraven on his brother's memory. The
toils and cares of a life spent in neglect of them had not obliterated
them. The interest with which he dwelt upon them led to the hope that
they had now something more than a place in his memory.

"Is it not too much to believe," said Richard, in the course of their
conversation, "that one whose manner of life has been so different from
his"--alluding to their father--"should leave the world in peace and
meet him in a better one?"

"We are to believe the declarations of Holy Writ--its promises as well
as its denunciations."

"True, that is the only thing that can enable one to look into the
narrow house without a shudder. How mistaken are those who suppose life
is not lost, provided there is peace at its close! I have hope for the
future; but I still feel that I have lost my life."

Henry's heart was too full to allow him to make any reply to his
brother's declaration.

"We have passed many happy days in our youth under the shade of this
tree. We shall never sit together here again."

"We ma