begins to stir in us again. But, since he has
done this, and repented of it, God cannot
continue his anger, and so that cannot be the
cause of his misfortunes. No, Sir, I don't
think that—but things have altered very
much of late years in this country. The
farms up in this Peak country used to be let
very low, very low indeed; and now they
have been three several times valued and
raised since I can remember. People cannot
live on them now, they really cannot. Then
the old gentleman, as farming grew bad,
speculated in lead mines, and that was much
worse; he did not understand it, and was
sorely imposed on, and lost a power of money;
oh! so much that it is a misery to think of.
Then, as troubles, they say, fly like crows in
companies, there came a very wet summer,
and all the corn was spoiled. That put a
finish to father's hopes. He was obliged to
quit the old farm where the Warilows had
been for ages, and that hurt him cruelly—it
is like shifting old trees, shifting old people is
—they never take to the new soil.

"But as Joseph was extremely knowing in
cattle, father took this farm—it's a great
grazing farm, sir, seven hundred acres, and
we feeden cattle. You would not believe it,
Sir, but we have only one man on this farm
besides Joseph and father."

"It is very solitary," said the stranger.

"Ah, Sir, very, but that we don't mind—
but it is a great burden, it does not pay.
Well, but as to the lost son. I came to
perceive how sorely this sat on father's mind, by
noticing that whenever I used to read in the
old Bible, on the shelf in the house-place,
there, that it opened of itself at the Prodigal
Son. A thought struck me, and so I watched,
and I saw that whenever the old gentleman
read in it on Sundays, he was always looking
there. It was some time before I ventured to
speak about it; but, one day when father was
wondering what could have been Samuel's
fate, I said, 'Perhaps, father, he will still
come home like the Prodigal Son in the
Scripture, and if he does we'll kill the fatted
calf for him, and no one will rejoice in it
more truly than Joseph will.'"

"When I had said it, I wished I had not
said it—for father seemed struck as with a
stake. He went as pale as death, and I
thought he would fall down in a fit; but, at
last, he burst into a torrent of tears, and,
stretching out his arms, said,—'And if he
does come he'll find a father's arms open to
receive him.'

"Ah, Sir! it was hard work to comfort him
again. I thought he would never have got
over it again; but, after that, he began at
times to speak of Samuel to me of himself,
and we've had a deal of talk together about
him. Sometimes father thinks he is dead,
and sometimes he thinks he is not; and, true
enough, of late years, there have come flying
rumours from America, from people who have
gone out there, who have said they have seen
him there—and that he was a very great
gentleman—they were sure it was him. But
then there was always something uncertain
in the account, and, above all, father said he
never could believe that Samuel was a great
gentleman, and yet never could forgive an
angry blow, and write home through all these
years. These things, Sir, pull the old man
down, and, what with his other troubles,
make me tremble to look forward."

Mrs. Warilow stopped, for she was
surprised to hear a deep suppressed sob from
the stranger; and, turning, she saw him
sitting with his handkerchief before his face.
Strange ideas shot across her mind. But at
this moment the old farmer, having finished
his after-dinner nap, was coming out to seek
them. Mr. Vandeleur rose, wiped some tears
from his face, and thanked Mrs. Warilow for
her communication. "You cannot imagine,"
he said, with much feeling, "how deeply you
have touched me. You cannot believe how
much what you have said resembles incidents
in my own life. Depend upon it, Madam,
your brother will turn up. I feel strongly
incited to help in it. We will have a search
after him, if it be from the St. Lawrence to
the Red River. If he lives, he will be found;
and I feel a persuasion that he will be."

They now met the old man, and all walked
into the house. After tea, there was much
talk of America. Mr. Vandeleur related
many things in his own history. He drew
such pictures of American life, and farming,
and hunting in the woods; of the growth of
new families, and the prosperous abundance
in which the people lived; that all were
extremely interested in his account. Joe sate
devouring the story with wonder, luxuriating
especially in the idea of those immense herds
of cattle in the prairies; and the old man
even declared that there he should like to go
and lay his bones. "Perhaps," added he,
"there I should, some day, find again my
Sam. But no, he must be dead, or he would
have written. Many die in the swamps and
from fever, don't they, Sir?"

"Oh! many, many," said Mr. Vandeleur,
"and yet there are often as miraculous
recoveries. For many years I was a Government
Surveyor. It was my business to survey
new tracts for sale. I was the solitary
pioneer of the population; with a single
man to carry my chain, and to assist me in
cutting a path through the dense woods.
I lived in the woods for years, for months
seeing no soul but a few wandering Indians.
Sometimes we were in peril from jealous and
savage squatters; sometimes were compelled
to flee before the monster grisly bear. I have
a strange fascinating feeling now of those
days, and of our living for weeks in the great
caves in the White Mountains, since become
the resort of summer tourists, with the
glorious 'Notch' glittering opposite, far above
us, and above the ancient woods. These
were days of real hardship, and we often saw