“HONOURED SIR,--Years ago you turned me off the farm on which I was born, and which was rented by my father before me. You did justly, and only what I deserved. From that day until now I have hated you and yours, and would have gone far and done much to work you harm. There was a triumphant vengeance in my heart when circumstances led me to believe that I could strike at you through your son. I deeply repent, and would hereby express my bitter sorrow for the trouble my wicked hate has caused. God has shown me the greatness of my sin; He has shown me the greatness of His mercy; He has forgiven my sin. I pray you, forgive me also. I desire to subscribe myself, with great respect, “Yours humbly and repentingly, “GEORGE MORRIS.” “Well! that’s a miracle, at any rate,” said the squire, as he handed the letter to his son; “that’s casting out a devil of no ordinary strength and size. I am bound to say it is a most satisfactory letter, and I shall write and express my pleasure at the receipt of it.” “And your hearty compliance with his request?” said Philip. “Certainly, my boy; George Morris’s conduct shall be forgotten and forgiven.” “Father!” said Philip, softly and half timidly; “Is not that a miracle, too?” The old gentleman, once stiff, stately, proud and unyielding to a degree, was compelled to feel that he himself had marvellously changed. He knew that that change had been largely wrought by the son he had received from the dead, and by the fair girl who had gotten so strong a hold upon his heart. “Yes, Philip,” and the father’s eyes reddened with suffusing tears, “I’m bound to own that I too am something other, and I think, better than I was.” Philip wisely and prudently said no more, but his soul was full of a yearning love to his mollified and chastened parent and of gratitude to God, who was so evidently leading him by a way he knew not, to a hitherto undiscovered resting-place for intellect and heart. In the course of the day the squire met his head gamekeeper. “Well, Hatfield,” said he, “how are you getting on?” “Why, sir,” said Hatfield, touching his hat, “we don’t seem to have very much to do now. A fortnight or two since, me and my mates were in peril of our lives, and Waverdale Woods were as flush of poachers as they were of game; but they seem to be pretty nearly all gone.” “Gone? What’s gone? The game?” “No, sir; the poachers. I haven’t seen a snare set, or heard a gun for three weeks, and the hares that were snared at the beginning of that time we had the pleasure of taking ourselves.” “I’m very glad to hear it, Hatfield. But how do you account for it?”