"A little more, my daughter; — I have seen the fairest sight, almost, a man can see in this world. I have seen a little ransomed spirit go home to its rest. Oh, that 'unspeakable gift!' " He pressed his lips thoughtfully together while he stirred his chocolate; but having drunk it, he pushed the table from him, and drew up his chair. "You had a long way to go, Papa," observed Alice, again. "Yes — a long way there — I don't know what it was coming home; I never thought of it. How independent the spirit can be of externals! I scarcely felt the storm to-night." "Nor I," said his son. "I had a long way to go," said Mr. Humphreys; "that poor woman — that Mrs. Dolan — she lives in the woods behind the Cat's Back, a mile beyond Carra-carra, or more — it seemed a long mile to-night; and a more miserable place I never saw yet. A little rickety shanty, the storm was hardly kept out of it, and no appearance of comfort or nicety anywhere or in anything. There were several men gathered round the fire, and in a corner, on a miserable kind of bed, I saw the sick child. His eye met mine the moment I went in, and I thought I had seen him before, but couldn't at first make out where. Do you remember, Alice, a little ragged boy, with a remarkably bright, pleasant face, who has planted himself regularly every Sunday morning for some time past in the south aisle of the church, and stood there all service time?" Alice said no. "I have noticed him often, and noticed him as paying a most fixed and steady attention. I have repeatedly tried to catch him on his way out of the church, to speak to him, but always failed. I asked him to night, when I first went in, if he knew me. 'I do, Sir,' he said. I asked him where he had seen me. He said, 'In the church beyant.' 'So,' said I, 'you are the little boy I have seen there so regularly; what did you come there for?" " 'To hear your honor spake the good words.' " 'What good words?' said I; 'about what?' "He said, 'About Him that was slain, and washed us from our sins in his own blood.' " 'And do you think he has washed away yours?' I said. "He smiled at me very expressively. I suppose it was somewhat difficult for him to speak; and, to tell the truth, so it was for me, for I was taken by surprise; but the people in the hut had gathered round, and I wished to hear him say more, for their sake as well as my own. I asked him why he thought his sins were washed away. He gave me for answer part of the verse, 'Suffer little children to come unto me,' but did not finish it. 'Do you think you are very sick, John?' I asked. " 'I am, Sir,' he said — 'I'll not be long here.' " 'And where do you think you are going, then?' said I. "He lifted one little, thin, bony arm from under his coverlid, and, through all the dirt and the pallor of his face, the smile of heaven I am sure was on it, as he looked and pointed upward, and answered, 'Jesus!'