Meanwhile, in obedience to the spirit of the day, the widow Margaret and Miriam, having each diligently disposed of their separate charge in the preparations, making a church of the homestead, conducted a worship in their own simple way. Opposite to each other in the little sitting-room, Miriam opened the old Family Bible, and at the widow Margaret's request read from that chapter which gives the story of the prodigal son. It was with a clear and pensive voice that she read, but not without a struggle with herself. Where the story told that the young man had gone into a far country; that he had wasted his substance in riotous living; that he was abased to the feeding of swine; that he craved in his hunger the very husks; that he lamented the plenty of his father's house--a cloud came upon her countenance, and the simplest eye could have interpreted the thoughts that troubled her. And how the fair young face brightened, when she read that the young man resolved to arise and return to the house of his father; the dear encounter; the rejoicing over his return, and the glad proclamation, "This, my son, was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found." "If he would come back even so," said the widow when the book was closed, "in sorrow, in poverty, in crime even, I would thank God and be grateful." "He is not guilty, mother," Miriam pleaded, casting her head upon the widow's bosom and clinging close about her neck. "I will not think that he is," Margaret answered, lifting up her head. "Guilty or innocent, he is my son--my son." Clasping the young orphan's hand, after a pause of tender silence, she gave utterance to her feelings in a Thanksgiving hymn. These were the words:-- Father! protect the wanderer on his way; Bright be for him thy stars and calm thy seas-- Thanksgiving live upon his lips to-day, And in his heart the good man's summer ease. Almighty! Thou canst bring the pilgrim back, With a clear brow to this his childish home; Guide him, dear Father, o'er a blameless track, No more to stray from us, no more to roam. At this moment a tumult of children's voices was heard in the door-yard, and as the widow turned, young William Peabody was seen struggling with Robert and little Sam, who were holding him back with all their force. As he dragged them forward, being their elder and superior in strength, Peabody Junior stretched his throat and called towards the house--"I've seen him--I've seen him!" "Who have you seen?" asked the widow, rising and approaching the door. "Mr. Barbary." When Peabody Junior made this answer the widow advanced with a gleam on her countenance, and gently releasing him, said, "Come, William, and tell us all about it."