And 'when he was yet a great way off his father saw him,' along the stony road beneath the vine-clad hills. Who can tell how often the father's eyes had gazed longingly down the road since his son's figure, gay, reckless of the benefits just bestowed, accompanied by servants, eager for the pleasures of the world, had vanished from his sight? Now, at last, after so long waiting and looking, he sees in the far distance, a very different sight. He sees a solitary figure, worn and bent down, in rags, dragging on its weary steps; how could the old man's gaze expect such a sight as this? Nevertheless, his father knew him, 'and ran and fell on his neck.' He did not wait for any accents of repentance, nor did he enforce any moral precepts which might advantage posterity. 'He fell on his neck and kissed him.' Foolish old father! Tom Jones is brought in. He goes to the bath. The familiar feeling of luxury comes over him once more. He is clothed in fine linen, and has a gold ring placed on his finger, the past seems an evil dream. Then the fatted calf is killed. The banquet is spread and there is festivity, music, and dancing-girls. But suddenly, in the midst of his delight, some trouble passes over the old man's face; his eldest son is not in his place, and they bring him word that he is without and refuses to come in. Some perception of a neglected truth passes through the father's mind, and he rises and goes out. 'Therefore came his father out and entreated him.' The eldest son has been out all day working in the vineyards; all his life had been one long performance of duty, taken for granted, and therefore unpraised and unrecognized. In how many households will silent witness be borne that this is real life--the gentle and obedient service overlooked--nay, more than this, the cross word or hasty temper where there is no fear that it will be returned. 'All these years have I served thee * * * and yet thou never gavest me a kid that I might make merry with my friends.' I am a man like others, gayety and feasting are pleasant to me, as to them. A look of perplexed, but growing insight comes into the father's face. 'Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine.' This is all very well, still he is conscious that there is something to be said for the eldest son, too. But his lost son--his wayward, and therefore loved son, is come again. 'It is meet that we should make merry and be glad, for this thy brother was dead and is alive again.' We can see the pitiful, pleading look in the old man's eyes,--'thy brother was dead.'