We found the young man seated beneath one of the flower-laden trees, intently perusing a book that my father had left with him. There was a peaceful look on his pale face, but it was rather the look of patient resignation than of ardent joy. His mother approached him alone; my father and I remaining in the background. After a little time he glanced up and saw his mother standing near him. A startled look came into his face, and he rose to his feet. She extended her arms toward him, and cried out pathetically, "John, my dear boy, come home to me--I need you!" That was all. With a low cry he knelt at her feet and clasped her knees, sobbing: "Mother! mother!" She stooped and put her tender arms about him; she drew his head gently to her breast and showered kisses on his bowed head. Oh, the warm mother-love, the same in earth and heaven! Only the Christ-love can exceed it. Here was this outraged mother, sent into eternity by the hands of him who should have shielded and sustained her, bending above her repentant son with the mother-love with which her heart was overflowing shining upon him from her gentle eyes. I saw my father turn his head to conceal his emotion, and I knew that my own eyes were wet. My father had explained to the mother that the first thing to be accomplished was to get her son to the river, so we now heard her say caressingly: "Come, John, my boy, take the first step upward, for your mother's sake, that in time I may have the joy of seeing you in our own home. Come, John, with mother." She gently drew him, and to our great joy we saw him rise and go with her, and their steps led them to the river. They walked hand in hand, and as far as we could see them she seemed to be soothing and comforting him. "Thank God!" said my father fervently. "There will be no further trouble now. When they return he will see with clearer vision." And so it proved. After this, by divine permission, I became much of the time a co-laborer with my father, and thus enjoyed his society and his instructions much oftener than otherwise I could have done. CHAPTER XVII. "Some day," we say, and turn our eyes Toward the fair hills of Paradise; Some day, some time, a sweet new rest Shall blossom, flower-like, in each breast. Some day, some time, our eyes shall see The faces kept in memory; Some day their hand shall clasp our hand, Just over in the Morning-land-- O Morning-land! O Morning-land! --[Edward H. Phelps.