My story is nearly ended. That night I made myself known to my father, and the shock of feeling at seeing me and learning that my mother and sister were alive and near him, instead of doing him injury, effected a good that probably nothing else could have done. His was a strange wild history, and it was only little by little, and that extending over a long time, as the powers of mind and memory gradually returned, that I learnt it. When he left his home it was under the terrible delusion that nothing but the workhouse was before him, and he could not bear to see the distress that would come upon his family. He took ship to America, and on the voyage his mind gave way. Arrived in that country, he was placed in proper care by the authorities, but in all the wanderings of his mind he never divulged his name or residence. Several times his reason became temporarily restored, but then the thought of his deserted wife and home was too terrible for him ever to think resolutely of returning thither. Years passed in this way, and during his rational periods he had to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. At last he so far recovered that his determination to return to his native land, and at least ascertain what had become of his family, was carried into effect. Penniless when he arrived, and the season cold and inclement, he had to endure severe hardships. Circumstances brought him into the company of a band of carol singers, to whom he engaged himself as money collector, and he had resolved to work his way to Marantby as soon as he was able. The best medical advice that could be had in London was obtained for him, and, by the blessing of God, his health of body and mind was restored. I will not attempt to describe the meeting with my mother, for no eye saw it. The effect was not injurious, on the contrary, from that day his old habits and spirits began to return, and for many years his life was one of unmingled peace and happiness. And so it came to pass that Christmas Day ceased to be a day of painful memories, for we could say, “He was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found.” Now his body rests beside that of my mother in the little churchyard at Marantby, and their spirits are in the bright world, where, perhaps, the angels are singing again this night that beautiful song they sang years ago, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and goodwill towards men.” CASTLE CONNOR. _By MONA B. BICKERSTAFFE, Author of “Begin Well, End Well;” “Araki, the Damio,” &c._