My heart rose in my mouth, as I ventured, seeing the coast clear, to approach the house, and even to peep into the parlor-window. I trembled; and an indescribable pang shot through my frame, as I noticed everything that well-known room contained, and which had not undergone any alteration since I last beheld it. But how shall I describe my feelings, when immediately afterwards, the door of the inner apartment was thrown open, and the next moment my mother appeared with the breakfast things. With what eager fondness did I gaze upon her revered countenance, and yearn again to be enfolded in her embrace; and most severely did I reproach myself when I noticed the heavy marks of care that were upon her brow. The casement was partially open, so that I could hear all that passed, and my mother, having placed the breakfast things on the table, sighed heavily and observed— ‘There, there!—There’s the breakfast ready for my poor husband, and now I wish he would return. He has been out since daylight with his gun; the only thing that seems to attract his attention. At home, all day he does nothing but sigh, or,—if he thinks he is not observed,—weep. Oh, Clara! unthinking girl you have too much to atone for. How long he stays.’ My heart was ready to burst as these words reached my ears, and it was with the greatest difficulty I could avoid betraying myself. My mother now came to the door and looked anxiously out, but a little thatched summer-house close at hand concealed me from observation. Again she entered the house, and I overheard her, in tones of the deepest anxiety, exclaim— ‘No, I cannot catch even a glimpse of him, yet my mind is never easy in his absence; his despondency sometimes makes me fear that—ah! surely yonder I see him moving mournfully among the trees. Yes, ’tis he—he is just at the bridge;—he comes!’ ‘Never shall I forget the sensation with which I strained my eyes in the direction which the observation of my mother instructed me in, and I thought I should have sunk to the earth with mingled feelings of the most intense anguish and awe, when my eyes once more beheld my father. But oh, how altered was he! Care had deeply imprinted its furrows on his cheeks, and his form was bent and attenuated. He walked with a feeble step, and at least twenty winters seemed to have passed over his head since I had last beheld him. ‘My God!’ I mentally ejaculated, ‘and are these the terrible consequences of my imprudence? Oh, my poor mother, truly did you say that I had much to atone for!—How can I ever make sufficient reparation for the misery I have occasioned.’ My father at length reached the house, and my mother ran affectionately to meet him. ‘You were wrong to have wandered so far,’ she said, ‘you seem quite exhausted.’ ‘No,’ replied my father, ‘’tis only exercise that can divert the mind from gloom; When the mind’s disturbed, the body does not feel fatigued. I’m late, I hope you haven’t waited breakfast for me.’