The pleasures of life, however varied, and grateful though they may be at the time, soon wither on the palate; and then, when we appreciate at last the knowledge of their dust and ashes, their Dead Sea-apple constituency, we _must_ turn to something better, something higher--the joys of which are more lasting and whose flavour proceeds from some less evanescent substance. Such were my reflections now; and, in my abasement and craving for "the one good thing," I thought of the kind vicar. During all the time of my rioting and sin, I had never been near either him or Miss Pimpernell. I would not have profaned the sanctuary of their dwelling with my presence! Both had tried to see me--in vain; for, I had separated myself entirely from all my former friends and acquaintances, burying the early associations of my previous life in the slough of the Bohemian-boon- companionship, into which I had thrown myself in London. The kind vicar had written to me a long, earnest, touching letter, which did not reproach me in the least but invited me to confide in him all my troubles; and, the dear old lady, also, had sent me many an appeal that she might be allowed to cheer me. But, I had not taken notice of their pleadings, persevering still in evil and shutting my ears to friendly counsels--as I likewise did to the voice of reason speaking in my inner heart. Now, however, in my misery, I bethought me of these friends. I went shame-faced and mentally-naked, like the prodigal son, once more to the vicarage. And how did they receive me? With the pharisaical philosophy of Miss Spight's school, looking on me as a "goat," with whom they had nothing to do:--"a lost soul," without the pale of their pity and almost below the par of their contempt? Not so! Dear little Miss Pimpernell got up from her arm-chair in the corner, and kissed me--the first time she had done such a thing since I was a little fellow and had sat upon her knee; while, the vicar shook me as cordially by the hand as he had ever done. "Dear Frank!" exclaimed the former. "Here you are at last. I thought you were never coming to us again!" That was all the allusion _she_ made to the past. "My boy," said the vicar, "I am glad to see you." That was all _he_ said; but, his speech was not mere empty verbiage. He meant it! I shall not tell you how they both talked to me: so tenderly, so kindly. It would not interest you. It only concerned myself. By-and-by, after a long interview, in which I laid all my troubles before these comforters, the vicar asked me what I thought of doing. "I shall go away,"--I said.--"I have exhausted London.--`I have lived and loved,' as Theckla says; and there is no hope of my getting on here! I would think that everybody would recall my past life, whenever they saw me, and throw it all back in my teeth."