“I think I may address thee as friend when our dear Redeemer so addressed his betrayer, Judas Iscariot. Thou askest me for comfort on the deep waters; but what comfort can there be to an alien from God? What peace can there be to the wicked? Yes! I will pray for thee! as thou desirest. I will pray earnestly that God will send thee troubles upon troubles. That he will toss thee with tempests on the ocean, and chase thee with misfortunes on land. I will pray that thou mayst suffer wrong, and robbery, and deceit, and betrayal. That thou mayst drink to the dregs of that cup of injury, and shame, and sorrow, that thou hast been so lavishly pouring out for others who should have been dear to thee as thy own soul. I forget—thy own soul is not dear to thee; more and sadder pity. I will pray for heart-soreness, and weariness of soul, for perils in cities and in deserts upon thee. For shattered prospects, ruined hopes, ruin of goods and good name, and for pursuit of measures and cruelties unto the verge of death. Mayst thou be solitary and forsaken, as thou hast left others of whom thou wert not worthy; may sickness overtake thee where there is none to tend or soothe. May the blackness and the shadow of death overtake thy soul and overwhelm thee with the terrors of hell. May its torments seize on thy vitals and consume all that is within thee of vile, and base, and unholy. And when the tempest and the earthquake have done their mission on thee, mayst thou be favoured to hear the still, small voice, which comes only to the ear opened by a pardoning God. All these woes I wish thee, not from anger or a spirit of unworthy vengeance, but from that love which is over all, and yearns after all that lives. Knowest thou not that the hard ground must first be torn up and rent in pieces by the plough and harrows of the husbandman before it can receive the seed of a new harvest? May the hard ground of thy heart, Henry Thorsby, be thus ploughed up and harrowed in sunder, for so only do I believe that it can be reduced to that soft and plastic state in which the seed of divine grace can once more grow. And that it may be so will be the daily prayer, the earnest wrestlings of the soul of one who would rejoice over thy recall to the paths of virtue and of heaven, as over a dearly beloved son. Thy friend in the truth, and the love which is indestructible and unfathomable, “REBECCA HERITAGE.” Thorsby received and read this letter in a profound silence: in silence he arose, thrust it into his pocket, and walked solemnly on board. The winds are bearing him away on a long and arduous pilgrimage. Let us leave him awhile to the unseen but ever-present hand which pursues with the scourge, but forgets not the balm. CHAPTER IX. ALL WRONG AT WOODBURN.