I
will pray tonight that God will bring Missy back to you."

When Mrs. Falconer returned to the kitchen to close the house for the
night, her husband being already sound asleep; she heard a low, timid
knock at the door. Wondering who it could be so late, she opened it.
The light fell on a shrinking, shabby figure on the step, and on a
pale, pinched face in which only a mother could have recognized the
features of her child. Mrs. Falconer gave a cry.

"Missy! Missy! Missy!"

She caught the poor wanderer to her heart and drew her in.

"Oh, Missy, Missy, have you come back at last? Thank God! Oh, thank
God!"

"I _had_ to come back. I was starving for a glimpse of your face and
of the old home, Mother," sobbed Missy. "But I didn't mean you should
know--I never meant to show myself to you. I've been sick, and just as
soon as I got better I came here. I meant to creep home after dark and
look at the dear old house, and perhaps get a glimpse of you and
Father through the window if you were still here. I didn't know if you
were. And then I meant to go right away on the night train. I was
under the window and I heard you telling my story to someone. Oh,
Mother, when I knew that you had forgiven me, that you loved me still
and had always kept my room for me, I made up my mind that I'd show
myself to you."

The mother had got her child into a rocking-chair and removed the
shabby hat and cloak. How ill and worn and faded Missy looked! Yet her
face was pure and fine, and there was in it something sweeter than had
ever been there in her beautiful girlhood.

"I'm terribly changed, am I not, Mother?" said Missy, with a faint
smile. "I've had a hard life--but an honest one, Mother. When I went
away I was almost mad with the disgrace my wilfulness had brought on
you and Father and myself. I went as far as I could get away from you,
and I got work in a factory. I've worked there ever since, just making
enough to keep body and soul together. Oh, I've starved for a word
from you--the sight of your face! But I thought Father would spurn me
from his door if I should ever dare to come back."

"Oh, Missy!" sobbed the mother. "Your poor father is just like a
child. He got a terrible hurt ten years ago, and never got over it. I
don't suppose he'll even know you--he's clean forgot everything. But
he forgave you before it happened. You poor child, you're done right
out. You're too weak to be travelling. But never mind, you're home
now, a