"Go on," said Mrs. Linwood, as I paused on this beautiful and consoling verse; "your voice is sweet, my child, and there is balm in every hallowed word." I turned to the ninety-first Psalm, which I had so often read to my own dear mother, and which I had long known by heart; then the hundred and sixteenth, which was a favorite of Ernest's. My voice faltered. I thought of him in loneliness and anguish, and my tears blotted the sacred lines. We both remained silent, for the awe of God's spirit was upon us, and the atmosphere made holy by the incense of His breath. A low, faint knock at the door. "Come in," said Mrs. Linwood, supposing it a servant. She started, when the door opened, and Ernest, pale as a ghost, stood on the threshold. I made a movement towards him, but he did not look at me. His eyes were riveted on his mother, who had half risen at his entrance, but sunk back on her seat. He passed by me, and approaching the window where she sat, knelt at her feet, and bowed his head in her lap. "Mother," said he, in broken accents, "I come, like the returning prodigal. I have sinned against Heaven and thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son,--give me but the hireling's place, provided it be near thy heart." "And have I found thee again, my son, my Ernest, my beloved, my only one?" she cried, bending down and clasping her arms around him. "Heavenly Father! I thank thee for this hour." Never had I loved them both as I did at that moment, when the holy tears of penitence and pardon mingled on their cheeks, and baptized their spirits as in a regenerating shower. My own tears flowed in unison; but I drew back, feeling as if it were sacrilege to intrude on such a scene. My first impulse was to steal from the room, leaving them to the unwitnessed indulgence of their sacred emotions; but I must pass them, and I would not that even the hem of my garments should rustle against them. Mrs. Linwood was the first to recognize my presence; she raised her head and beckoned me to approach. As I obeyed her motion, Ernest rose from his knees, and taking my hand, held it for a moment closely, firmly in his own; he did not embrace me, as he had always done in the transports of reconciliation; he seemed to hold me from him in that controlling grasp, and there was something thrilling, yet repelling, in the dark depths of his eyes that held me bound to the spot where I stood.