"But I have not feared him, Mary,--therefore he does not pity me. And his chastening is the chastening of an offended judge--in vengeance--not the chastening of a father." Mary despaired not, though her father thus repelled all consolation; and when he sat absorbed in melancholy, and she scarcely dared intrude upon his thoughts, she would move about the room, just breathing the lines, "Come ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, Come, at the shrine of God, fervently kneel; Here bring your wounded hearts; here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal;" and at the same time raise a fervent prayer, that his sorrow might not ultimately prove to be that "sorrow of the world that worketh death," but the "sorrow that worketh repentance unto salvation." Her prayer was heard; her efforts were successful. It was not long ere with heartfelt gratitude, she heard him say, "'It is good for me that I have been afflicted.' 'The Lord gave,' but I have abused his gifts; and he 'hath taken away,' and blessed be his name for thus bringing an erring son near to himself." When this happy change first took place in the feelings of her father, Mary felt as though she had scarcely a care or a sorrow left. A future world, uncorroded by cares, unstained by tears, unblemished by sin, and unvisited by sorrow, opened on the eye of faith,--and all was peace within. But their pilgrimage was not yet accomplished; this home was not yet attained; and in the meantime, something must be done. Scarcely a wreck of their fortune remained; and Mr. Kirkwood, verging towards sixty, with the energies of his mind crushed by misfortune, felt it impossible to begin again his career as a lawyer. The remaining pride of his heart, rendered it extremely painful to remain amidst his former associates, with whom he could no longer, on equal terms, hold intercourse; and where every scene called back the visions of former splendors, and buried friends, with a sickening influence. "Let us fly far from hence, my daughter," said he; "elsewhere I may recover something of my energy, and be capable of making some effort; _here_ I can do nothing. Let us fly from the world, and hide ourselves in seclusion. My soul needs repose. A withering blast has swept over it, to tear away its idols. The work is done--but the wounds are still bleeding: and though, I trust, the great physician is at work, there needs time to perfect a cure. Let us fly from hence, and in some new and humble occupation, strive to support ourselves for the remainder of life's journey, and rear these little ones for immortality."