“Judy, my lass,” he said, when the whole epistle had been deciphered. “Thoo sees the Lord is as good as His wod. Thoo an’ me’s been prayin’ fo’ wer lad an’ commendin’ ’im te God. We begun te think ’at t’ answer was a lang while o’ cumin’. It tarried, bud we wayted fo’ ’t, an’ noo it’s cum, an’ booath thoo an’ me’s livin’ an’ hearty te hear it. The Lord keeps us waytin’ at tahmes, bud He nivver cums ower leeat. His hand’s allus riddy for a deead lift, an’ noo I hae faith te beleeave ’at we sall see wer lad feeace te feeace.” “The Lord’s varry good tiv us,” said Judith, looking lovingly at her dear old husband, through her tears of joy. “Ah’ve done wi’ dootin’, an’ if He’ll only let me see my bairn ah sall go te my grave in peace.” “Natty!” said Adam. “You’ve just cum i’ tahme te hear t’ good news, an’ ah’s seear you’ll be glad te join us i’ givin’ thenks at t’ Throne o’ Grace.” Then the old Christian poured out his soul to God in fervent prayer. The little room was radiant with the presence of the Abiding Friend, and when they rose from their knees, Adam shook Blithe Natty by the hand, and said, with a smile,-- “Pete ’ll be i’ Nestleton be’ Can’lemas, an’ ’im an’ t’ Methodist chapil ’ll cum tegither!” At the Sunday service in Farmer Houston’s kitchen, Adam returned public thanks for the light which had come to him and Judith from across the sea. There, too, old Kasper Crabtree, somewhat feeble and pale yet, and scarce recovered from the severe treatment he had received on his way home from Kesterton Fair, was present to join in earnest worship with the faithful few whom he had long persecuted and despised. As he bowed his head in prayer, we may be sure that, mingling with his requests for personal grace and help, there rose an earnest petition that God’s best blessing might rest for ever on the fair evangelist who had led him, while on the bed of sickness, to seek the Crucified; and through whose gentle instrumentality the moral darkness of a lifetime had been dispersed, and light and love divine had streamed in upon his melted soul. CHAPTER XXVIII. BILL BUCKLEY SEES AN APPARITION. “No; ’tis the tale that angry conscience tells, When she with more than tragic horror swells Each circumstance of guilt; when stern, but true, She brings bad actions forth into review, And, like the dread handwriting on the wall, Bids late remorse awake at reason’s call.” _Churchill._