rejoicing in the glorious words of one of old, “Return unto thy rest, oh, my soul! for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.” The summer was nearly past, the winter had nearly come, but Halbert Melville was saved. But Halbert must go home; alas, he has no home in this wide continent. In all the multitude of breathing mortals here, there is not one whose eye grows brighter or heart warmer at his approach. He is, on the contrary, regarded curiously and with wonder; sometimes indeed with pity, but he is still the stranger, though nearly two years have passed since first he received that name. His home, such as it is, is in a great bustling town, at a distance from this quiet solitude, to which long ago--there are places near it famed in the catalogue of vulgar wonders,--a sudden impulse drew him, a yearning to look on nature’s sunny face again, as he had done of old in his days of peace and happiness, or a desire, it might be, to attain even a deeper solitude than he, stranger though he was, could find amid the haunts of men. But now he must return to his distasteful toil, and solitary room. Ah! Halbert, how different from the solitary room in old Edinburgh, the books, congenial studies, and pleasant recreations before the tempter came! but it is with a light step and a contented heart for all that, that Halbert Melville retraces his steps along the lonely way. Now there is hope in the sparkle of his brightened eye, and a glow of his own old home affections at his heart, as he catches the wide sweep of the distant sea, and the white sails swelling already in the pleasant breeze, that will bear them home. Home! what magic in the word! it has regained all its gladdening power, that hallowed syllable, and Halbert is dreaming already of Christian’s tearful welcome, and little Mary’s joy; when a chill strikes to his heart. Is he sure that the letter of the prodigal, who has brought such agony and grief upon them, will be received so warmly? No, he is not, he doubts and fears still, for all the peace that is in his heart, and Halbert’s first resolution is changed; he dare not write; but his fare shall be plain, his lodging mean, his apparel scanty, till he has the means of going home, of seeking pardon with his own lips, of looking on their reconciled faces with his own rejoicing eye; or of bidding them an adieu for evermore.