"Who forgives? The father his profligate son, or disobedient daughter? No; he disinherits his firstborn, and suffers him to perish, perhaps by an ignominious death. He leaves his only daughter to drag out her days in penury--a widow with orphans. The world may condemn, but is silent; he goes to church every Sabbath, but no preacher denounces punishment on the unrelenting, the unforgiving parent. Yet how easily might he have taken them both back to his heart, and loved them better than ever! But she poisoned my cup of life when it seemed to overflow with heaven. Had God dashed it from my lips, I could have borne my doom. But with her own hand which I had clasped at the altar--and with our Lucy at her knees--she gave me that loathsome draught of shame and sorrow:--I drank it to the dregs--and it is burning all through my being--now--as if it had been hell-fire from the hands of a fiend in the shape of an angel. In what page of the New Testament am I told to forgive her? Let me see the verse--and then shall I know that Christianity is an imposture; for the voice of God within me--the conscience which is His still small voice--commands me never from my memory to obliterate that curse--never to forgive her, and her wickedness--not even if we should see each other's shadows in a future state, after the day of judgment." His countenance grew ghastly--and staggering to a stone, he sat down and eyed the skies with a vacant stare, like a man whom dreams carry about in his sleep. His face was like ashes--and he gasped like one about to fall into a fit. "Bring me water"--and the old man motioned on the child, who, giving ear to him for a moment, flew away to the Lakeside with an urn she had brought with her for flowers; and held it to her father's lips. His eyes saw it not;--there was her sweet pale face all wet with tears, almost touching his own--her innocent mouth breathing that pure balm that seems to a father's soul to be inhaled from the bowers of paradise. He took her into his bosom--and kissed her dewy eyes--and begged her to cease her sobbing--to smile--to laugh--to sing--to dance away into the sunshine--_to be happy!_ And Lucy afraid, not of her father, but of his kindness--for the simple creature was not able to understand his wild utterance of blessings--returned to the glade but not to her pastime, and couching like a fawn among the fern, kept her eyes on her father, and left her flowers to fade unheeded beside her empty urn.