"Well, the fact of the matter is, sir, the girl's father and I ain't friends, and neither of us was willing to give our consent. The girl was sent off by her father to live at her aunt's, just to get her out of my son's way. I knew all about this, but I wasn't going to tell the young man, lest he should take it into his head to run after her, so, thinking to blunt his passion, I invented the story of her death, saying that she had been carried off by the epidemic, hoping that after a time, finding she was no more, that he would cease to think of her. But instead of that, he grew worse and worse, and I attribute his death to the lie I told about his sweetheart's decease." "You did very wrong," said I, "not to give your consent." "Well, but, sir, if I _had_ given _mine_, the girl's father would not have given _his_," replied my father. "If you had been the first to make up the quarrel, I have no doubt that he would have given his consent," said I. My father seemed stung with this reproach, and took out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes. "Ah, my poor son! my poor son!" sobbed my father. "What wouldn't I give to have him back again?" "Would you give your consent to his marriage with the girl he loved if he could come to life again?" I asked. "Ay, sir, that would I, only too gladly," replied my father, "but what's the use of talking now that he has gone from me for ever?" "You speak like a man without faith," said I. "Have you no belief in an after life? Have you no hope of meeting him in Heaven?" "That is the only hope I have left, sir," said my father, "but in the meantime----" "Ah!" said I, "you cannot make up your mind to be consoled for his loss for the few short years that you have to remain upon earth." "Well, sir, it's very hard to bear," said my father. "Have you ever prayed?" I asked. "Yes, sir," said he, "I say my prayers regularly." "But do you say them earnestly?" said I. "Do you believe that if you ask a thing that you will receive what you ask for? For instance, if you were to pray for your son to be restored to life, do you believe that he really _would_ be restored to life?" My father stared in surprise. "Well, to tell you the truth, sir, no," he said; "for we all know that when a man has been buried three weeks that he rarely returns. Even Lazarus was but four days under the earth. In fact, the thought of praying for his return after his spirit had once been yielded up never occurred to me. When David was bereaved of his child by Uriah's wife, he humbled himself whilst the child was yet alive with sackcloth and ashes, but when he heard that the child was dead, he rose and ate bread. What instance is there on record of one returning to life after being buried three weeks?" "Pray, nevertheless," said I; "the mercy of God is boundless. Who knows but that----" "Oh, sir, sir," said my father, shaking his head, "you but mock me; it cannot be."