"But are you sure of all this?" cried my wife, "are you sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy?" "Nothing, indeed, madam," returned my son; "you shall see the letter, which will give you the highest pleasure: and if anything can procure you comfort, I am sure that will." "But are you sure," still repeated she, "that the letter is from himself, and that he is really so happy?" "Yes, madam," replied he, "it is certainly his, and he will one day be the credit and the support of our family." "Then I thank Providence," cried she, "that my last letter to him has miscarried. Yes, my dear," continued she, turning to me, "I will now confess that though the hand of Heaven is sore upon us in other instances, it has been favourable here. By the last letter I wrote my son, which was in the bitterness of anger, I desired him, upon his mother's blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see justice done his father and sister, and avenge our cause. But, thanks to Him who directs all things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest." [Illustration: "_What! not one left! not to leave me one! The monster!_"—_p._ 140. ] "Woman," cried I, "thou hast done very ill, and at another time my reproaches might have been more severe. Oh! what a tremendous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have buried both thee and him in endless ruin! Providence, indeed, has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved that son to be the father and protector of my children when I shall be away. How unjustly did I complain of being stripped of every comfort, when still I hear that he is happy, and insensible of our afflictions; still kept in reserve to support his widowed mother, and to protect his brothers and sisters! But what sisters has he left? He has no sisters now: they are all gone, robbed from me, and I am undone!" "Father," interrupted my son, "I beg you will give me leave to read this letter: I know it will please you." Upon which, with my permission, he read as follows:— "HONOURED SIR, "I have called off my imagination a few moments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix it upon objects that are still more pleasing—the dear little fireside at home. My fancy draws that harmless group as listening to every line of this with great composure. I view those faces with delight, which never felt the deforming hand of ambition or distress. But whatever your happiness may be at home, I am sure it will be some addition to it to hear that I am perfectly pleased with my situation, and every way happy here.