“You are too hard upon her, grandsir,” cried her mother, with some asperity, and smarting for her child; “you forget she is young flesh and blood; but you are such a saint, and you live so much for another world, that you make no allowance for a poor young creature’s feelings in this, when her heart is almost torn out of her body.” “Child,” said the old man, trembling, “you ere cutting on me with a sharp knife! I, a saint! oh, you don’t know nothing of the wickedness of this old heart; that it was my own sinfulness I was a rebuking, when I was so harsh with this dear child; for I confess it—and it is with shame and confusion—that I have thought more of her being among the grand of the airth, of her riding in her chariot, dressed in vain attire of silks and satins, and adorned with pairls and jewels of fine goold, than of the welfare of her immortal soul. And I verily believe,” he continued, the tears which had long been strangers on his usually placid face, now running down his furrowed cheek, and his whole countenance working with distress, “I verily believe for my sin, this has fallen upon us all; and oh! that this old white head had it all to bear.” Mrs. Stimpson was entirely subdued by this humble confession of her father-in-law, whom she had always regarded as so near perfection, and so much above all human weakness, that her affection for him had been chilled by a feeling partaking of awe. “Oh, grandsir!” she said, “how cruel I’ve been to you; but I never knew how tender-hearted you were before.” “No, child, you have always been good to me,” returned the old man; “and better than I desarve; but let us pray that this affliction may be sanctified to us all, and wean us from the perishing things of this airth—myself above all, who can’t have much longer to stay; and this dear child, that she may feel it as a goolden thread a drawing on her easy like to heaven.” He then knelt down, his son and daughter-in-law by his side, and offered up an humble and fervent prayer over Judith, who was lying before them. Meanwhile the paroxysms of her grief appeared to abate by degrees, and during her grandfather’s prayer her lips moved as if accompanying him; her sobs became less frequent, and at length were heard no longer; her slow and regular breathing showing that she had fallen into a profound sleep. Her father brought a pillow and tenderly placed it beneath her head. She slept heavily for more than an hour, when, it being long after midnight, her parents, fearing she would take cold, removed her into their own bed—this room being their sleeping apartment in the winter season. As she moaned on being disturbed, her mother soothed and caressed her; and then placing herself by the side of her child, she folded her in her arms, and lulled her to sleep, as if again an infant, while her father placed himself in the easy-chair, and watched until sleep overpowered him.