"My child, my darling, my own sweet Helen," he cried, pressing her fondly to his bosom. "You have always been gentle, loving and obedient. You have never wilfully given me one moment's sorrow. In the name of thy beautiful mother I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed." The excitement of his feelings gave an exalted tone to his voice and words, and as the benediction stole solemnly into her heart, Helen felt as if the plumage of the white dove was folded in downy softness there. In the meantime Mittie had quitted the room, and Mrs. Gleason drawing near Louis, sat down by him, and addressed him in a kind, cheering manner. "These heavy locks must be shorn to-morrow," said she, passing her hand over his long, dark hair. "They sadden your countenance too much. A night's sleep, too, will bring back the color to your face. You are over weary now. Retire, my son, and banish every emotion but gratitude for your return. You are safe now, and all will yet be well." "Oh, mother," he answered, suffering his head to droop upon her shoulder, then suddenly lifting it, "I am not worthy to rest on this sacred pillow. I am not worthy to touch the hem of your garments, but if the deepest repentance--the keenest remorse," he paused, for his voice faltered, then added, passionately, "oh, mother-- 'Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy sirups of the world Can ever medicine me to the sweet sleep' I once slept beneath this hallowed roof." "No, my son--but there is a remedy more balmy and powerful than all the drugs of the East, which you can obtain without money and without price." Louis shook his head mournfully. "I will give you an anodyne to-night, prepared by my own hand, and to-morrow--" "Give me the anodyne, kindest and best of mothers, but don't, for Heaven's sake, talk of to-morrow." But whether man speak or be silent, Time, the unresting traveler, presses on. Never but once have its chariot wheels been stayed, when the sun stood still on the plains of Gibeon, and the moon hung pale and immovable over the vale of Ajalon. Sorrow and remorse are great prophets, but Time is greater still, and they can no more arrest or accelerate its progress than the breath of a new-born infant can move the eternal mountains from their base.