It was a dreamless sleep, and noon had come when he awoke. For a few moments he was unable to recall where he was or how he had come there, but in a very short time the recollection of everything that had happened to him since the evening before swept over his mind like a flood. Every circumstance now, however, was viewed in a far different light. Somehow, the provocation which had sent him into the wide world to seek his fortune did not seem half so great as it had seemed only the night before. The example of De Foe's hero was not so completely alluring, and a portion of that history which the evening previous he had not deemed worthy of a thought, now rose vividly before him. He seemed to read again these words: "My father, a grave, wise man, gave me serious and excellent counsel against what he saw was my design. He told me it was for men of desperate fortunes on the one hand, or of aspiring superior fortunes on the other, who went abroad upon adventures, to rise by enterprise and make themselves famous in undertakings of a nature out of the common road: that these things were all either too far above me, or too far below me: that mine was the middle state or what might be called the upper station of humble life, which he had found by long experience was the best state in the world, the most suited to human happiness. The wise man gave his testimony to this when he prayed to have 'neither poverty nor riches.'" And then came the thought that all that Robinson ever gained in fame or fortune, failed to still the quiet but terrible whisper of his conscience whenever he thought of those he had abandoned for a roving life. So intently did he think upon these things, he seemed actually to behold the wanderer upon his sea-girt island with lawless Will Atkins and the gentle French priest beside him, while the words of the repentant mutineer seemed to be hissed into his ear:--"No, sir, I did not cut his throat, but I cut the throat of all his comforts. I shortened his days and I broke his heart by the most ungrateful, unnatural return, for the most tender and affectionate treatment that father ever gave or child could receive." Young Willard could not but remember that _his_ parents had been most kind and tender, that _his_ father had lavished upon him during all the years of his childhood a most prodigal wealth of affection: and the one harsh epithet he had received seemed as nothing among the multitude of kind and loving words that had never been withheld from him. His heart told him that something deeper than any ordinary woe would darken his mother's quiet face when she beheld his empty chair and realized that he had gone, perhaps never to return, without one farewell word to her. Such reflections as these, that he wondered had not occurred to him before, now took possession of his mind and, impelled by their influence, he arose and slowly started back towards home. As he came within sight of the old place he saw his