Reuben had many sad thoughts as he watched him, and mentally contrasted him with the gay, smart young fellow who had left Ashworth some years ago to seek his fortune in town. Owen had now a crushed, hopeless air, a furtive, shrinking gaze which told of inward shame; he looked many years older than he was, and all his buoyancy and brightness were gone. Reuben had far more hope for him than he had for himself. It was difficult to persuade him that there was yet a chance for him in life, a chance of regaining self-respect and the esteem of others, a chance—nay, more than a chance, a blessed certainty—that a new life was possible for him through faith in Christ Jesus. Owen said little as they sat together in the railway carriage. But once he looked across at his friend, and said half bitterly,— "There is no need to ask the question, Reuben. You've done well for yourself during these years, I can see." "Yes, I've got on better than I could have expected," said Reuben simply; "I've much to be thankful for. But I had my trials at first, though. Real temptations some of them were, too." "You're still at Akenside's works?" "Yes; I hope I may never serve another master. I'm very happy in my life at Birmingham now." "You're not married?" "No, but I hope soon to be. I'm just arranging a little home of my own," replied Reuben, his face breaking into a smile. "Ah! Is it one of the Ashworth girls?" "Not exactly; but she has lived with my mother at Ashworth for the last five years." "Well, I hope you'll be happy," said Owen, not over cordially. Then a heavy sigh escaped him. He was thinking of his own youth, and how superior his prospects had seemed to those of Reuben, who had appeared dull and slow as a lad, and little likely to rise in the world. His bitter experience was teaching Owen the truth, so often forgotten, that we reap as we sow. The next day, Owen yielded to Reuben's persuasions, and went on to Ashworth. Reuben would fain have gone with him, but he could not spare the time, work having accumulated for him during his absence. So Owen alighted alone at the little station, and passed up the village street with a dreary sense that none of the old neighbours recognised him, and that some were even regarding him with suspicion. Scarce consciously, he took the familiar path across the fields to his old home. He reached the gate. Some mischievous hand had torn it from its hinges, and it lay back against the hedge. At a glance he saw all the desolation which had come upon the spot once so fair—the grass-grown path, the tall, flaunting weeds that were choking the few flowers that yet remained, the rotten thatch, the broken windows of the old house. And he had caused it all! He had brought this ruin upon the home which had been his father's pride! He had brought shame and sorrow upon his father's grey hairs, and hurried him to his grave! The thought smote him with a bitter pang. He leaned against the hedge, and a sob escaped him.