ience of my own family. Before I was
fourteen years old the first thing I remember was the death of my
father. He had been unfortunate in business, and failed. Soon after his
death the creditors came in and took everything. My mother was left with
a large family of children. One calamity after another swept over the
entire household. Twins were added to the family, and my mother was
taken sick. The eldest boy was fifteen years of age, and to him my
mother looked as a stay in her calamity, but all at once that boy became
a wanderer. He had been reading some of the trashy novels, and the
belief had seized him that he had only to go away to make a fortune.
Away he went. I can remember how eagerly she used to look for tidings of
that boy; how she used to send us to the post office to see if there was
a letter from him, and recollect how we used to come back with the sad
news, "No letter." I remember how in the evenings we used to sit beside
her in that New England home, and we would talk about our father; but
the moment the name of that boy was mentioned she would hush us into
silence. Some nights when the wind was very high, and the house, which
was upon a hill, would tremble at every gust, the voice of my mother was
raised in prayer for that wanderer who had treated her so unkindly. I
used to think she loved him more than all the rest of us put together,
and I believe she did. On a Thanksgiving day--you know that is a family
day in New England--she used to set a chair for him, thinking he would
return home. Her family grew up and her boys left home. When I got so
that I could write, I sent letters all over the country, but could find
no trace of him. One day while in Boston the news reached me that he had
returned. While in that city, I remember how I used to look for him in
every store--he had a mark on his face--but I never got any trace. One
day while my mother was sitting at the door, a stranger was seen coming
toward the house, and when he came to the door he stopped. My mother
didn't know her boy. He stood there with folded arms and great beard
flowing down his breast, his tears trickling down his face. When my
mother saw those tears she cried, "Oh, it's my lost son," and entreated
him to come in. But he stood still. "No, mother," he said, "I will not
come in till I hear first you forgive me." Do you believe she was not
willing to forgive him? Do you think she was likely to keep him long
standing there? She rushed to