as little chance of changing his
determination, or softening his anger towards Ben.

The next day, when Mr. Brandon returned home to dinner from his
coal-wharf, he found Mary seated at the head of the table.

"Where is your mother?" he asked.

"She went to Philadelphia by the middle train," was the answer.

"She has gone on a fool's errand."

"I advised her not to go; but she thought she might meet Ben, and I
could not dissuade her."

"Well, she will be better satisfied after she has been up--and failed to
find him."

"Do you think he will ever come back, father?"

"Yes; he will turn up again some day, like a bad penny. He will find
that earning his own living is not quite so agreeable as being taken
care of at home."

"Suppose he shouldn't come back?"

"So much the worse for him," said Mr. Brandon.

Mr. Brandon spoke after his way of speaking, for he was not an
affectionate man, nor given to the softer emotions. He had never given
Ben any reason to think he loved him, at least since he was a baby, but
appearances are sometimes deceptive, and he thought more of his son's
absence than any one would have supposed. He thought, too, of that
sentence in Ben's letter, in which he spoke of being punished for what
he did not do, and he admitted to himself, though he would not have done
so to his wife, that perhaps he had been unjust to the boy after all.
Every day when he turned from his office to go home, it was with the
unacknowledged hope that he might find the prodigal returned. But in
this hope they were all doomed to be disappointed. Year after year
passed away, and still no tidings from Ben beyond that single letter
which we have mentioned.

Mrs. Brandon returned from Philadelphia, as might have been anticipated,
disappointed and despondent. She was very tired, for she had wandered
about the streets, looking everywhere, during the four or five hours she
was in the city. Once or twice her heart beat high, as she saw in front
of her a boy of Ben's size, and dressed as he had been dressed when he
left home. But when, with hurrying steps she came up with him, she was
doomed, in every case, to disappointment.

"I told you it would be no use, mother," said Mary.

"I couldn't stay at home contented, if I did nothing to find him, Mary."

"He'll turn up yet some day, mother,--return in rags most likely."

"Come when he may, or how he may, Mary, my arms shall be open to receive
him."

But the years passed, an