of the words reached my ear, they penetrated my soul, like a
strain of solemn music. I felt the divine influence of those breathings
of humanity, sanctified by the inspiration of the Deity. I felt the same
consciousness of man's insignificance as when I listened to Niagara's
eternal roar. And yet, if God cared for us, there was exaltation and
glory in the thought.

"Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within
me? hope thou in God, for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of
my countenance and my God."

"Go on," said Mrs. Linwood, as I paused on this beautiful and consoling
verse; "your voice is sweet, my child, and there is balm in every
hallowed word."

I turned to the ninety-first Psalm, which I had so often read to my own
dear mother, and which I had long known by heart; then the hundred and
sixteenth, which was a favorite of Ernest's. My voice faltered. I
thought of him in loneliness and anguish, and my tears blotted the
sacred lines. We both remained silent, for the awe of God's spirit was
upon us, and the atmosphere made holy by the incense of His breath.

A low, faint knock at the door. "Come in," said Mrs. Linwood, supposing
it a servant. She started, when the door opened, and Ernest, pale as a
ghost, stood on the threshold. I made a movement towards him, but he did
not look at me. His eyes were riveted on his mother, who had half risen
at his entrance, but sunk back on her seat. He passed by me, and
approaching the window where she sat, knelt at her feet, and bowed his
head in her lap.

"Mother," said he, in broken accents, "I come, like the returning
prodigal. I have sinned against Heaven and thee, and am no more worthy
to be called thy son,--give me but the hireling's place, provided it be
near thy heart."

"And have I found thee again, my son, my Ernest, my beloved, my only
one?" she cried, bending down and clasping her arms around him.
"Heavenly Father! I thank thee for this hour."

Never had I loved them both as I did at that moment, when the holy tears
of penitence and pardon mingled on their cheeks, and baptized their
spirits as in a regenerating shower. My own tears flowed in unison; but
I drew back, feeling as if it were sacrilege to intrude on such a scene.
My first impulse was to steal from the room, leaving them to the
unwitnessed indulgence of their sacred emotions; but I must pass them,
and I would not that even the hem of my garments should rustle against
t