d the world knows not his clouded
lineage."

My heart warmed at her generous praises of Richard, who was every day
more and more endeared to my affections. Where was he now? Had he
commenced his mission, and gone to the gloomy cell where his father was
imprisoned? He did not wish me to accompany him the first time. What a
meeting it must be! He had never consciously beheld his father. The
father had no knowledge of his deserted son. In the dungeon's gloom, the
living grave of hope, joy, and fame, the recognition would take place.
With what feelings would the poor, blasted criminal behold the noble
boy, on whom he had never bestowed one parental care, coming like an
angel, if not to unbar his prison doors, to unlock for him the golden
gates of heaven!

I was too weary for my journey, too much exhausted from agitation to
wait for Richard's return, but I could not lay my head on the pillow
before writing to Mrs. Linwood and Edith, and telling them the tidings I
had learned of the beloved exile. And now the first stormy emotions had
subsided, gratitude, deep and holy gratitude, triumphed over every other
feeling. Far, far away as he was, he was with a friend; he was in all
human probability safe, and he could learn in time how deeply he had
wronged me.

Often, on bended knees, with weeping eyes and rending sighs had I
breathed this prayer,--"Only let him know that I am still worthy of his
love, and I am willing to resign it,--let me be justified in his sight,
and I am willing to devote my future life to _Thee_."

The path was opening, the way clearing, and my faith and resignation
about to be proved. I recognized the divine arrangement of Providence in
the apparently accidental circumstances of my life, and my soul
vindicated the justice as well as adored the mercy of the Most High.

A voice seemed whispering in my ear, "O thou afflicted and tossed with
tempests! there is a haven where thy weary bark shall find rest. I, who
once bore the burden of life, know its sorrows and temptations, its
wormwood and its gall. I bore the infirmities of man, that I might pity
and forgive; I bore the crown of thorns, that thou mightest wear the
roses of Paradise; I drained the dregs of human agony, that thou
mightest drink the wine of immortality. Is not my love passing the love
of man, and worth the sacrifice of earth's fleeting joys?"

As the heavenly accents seemed to die away, like a strain of sweet, low
harmony, came murmuring