"Many years ago I read of a pious widow who lived in the northern part of England. She had one son. This boy, whose name was Charles, from being her pet and darling, became her scourge and her cross. He loved bad company, and at length declared his intention of going to sea. His mother, with many tears and sad forebodings, bade him farewell; but as she did so, she put into his hand a New Testament inscribed with her name and his own, solemnly and tenderly entreating that he would keep it and read it for her sake. Year after year elapsed, bearing to heaven the record of her prayers and tears, and still no tidings of her boy! "At length her maternal anxiety could brook no longer delay. She set out alone for London, where she went about making inquiries concerning the vessel in which Charles had sailed. She one day mot a sea captain, who told her the ship had been wrecked long before, adding, 'They were a wicked crew, especially a cabin boy by the name of Charles—. He was so depraved and profligate, that it were a good thing if he and all like him were at the bottom of the sea.' "Pierced to her inmost soul, this unhappy mother withdrew from the house, and hastened to her retired home. The language of her heart was, 'I shall go down to the grave mourning for my son.' "Some years elapsed, when one night, a half-naked sailor knocked at her door to ask relief. He had seen great perils in the deep, had been several times wrecked, but, said he, 'I have never been so dreadfully destitute as I was some years back, when I and a fine young gentleman were the only ones saved of a whole ship's crew. We were cast upon a desert island, where, after seven days, I closed his eyes. Poor fellow! I never shall forget him;' And here the tears stole down his weather-beaten cheeks. "'He read day and night,' continued the sailor, 'in a little book which he said his mother gave him, and which was the only thing he saved from the wreck. It was his companion every moment. He wept for his sins; he prayed; he kissed the volume; he talked of nothing but this book and his mother; and when he died, he gave it to me, with many thanks for my poor services. "'There, Jack,' said he, 'take this book, and keep it and read it, and may God bless you; it's all I've got.' "And then he clasped my hand, and died in peace." "'Is this all true?' said the trembling, astonished mother, hope whispering to her heart that the dying youth was her own Charles. "'Yes, madam, every word of it.' And then, dragging from his ragged jacket a little book, much tattered and time-worn, he held it up, exclaiming, 'And here's the very book too.' "She seized it, descried her own handwriting, and beheld the name of her son coupled with her own upon the fly leaf. She gazed, she read, she wept, she rejoiced. She seemed to hear a voice saying, 'Thy son liveth;' and from her heart she was ready to exclaim, 'Now, Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.'