d
there's his old father in the distance coming to meet him; and can you
see the words underneath?--_'I will arise and go to my father, and will
say unto him, Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and before thee_.' I
thought you would like it to look at while you are in bed. May I rest it
against the rail at the bottom of your bed?--then you can see it
beautifully."

Nurse came forward and helped the child to put the picture in the place
she wished; and Sir Edward tried to look pleased, and said in a low
tone,--

"Thank you, little one, I can see it well from there"; but under his
breath he muttered, "Has she a purpose in bringing that everlasting
subject before me? I'm sick to death of it. I shall get rid of that
picture when she is gone."

But he did not. His eyes grew somewhat wistful as he gazed upon it, and
later in the day, when nurse asked him if he would like to have it
removed, he shook his head in the negative.

No one could know his thoughts during those long days and nights of
weariness and pain. The restlessness of body did not equal the
restlessness of soul, and the past came back with a startling vividness.
The wasted years, the misused talents, and above all, the fast-closed
heart against its rightful Owner, now seemed to stand up in judgment
against him. Often in his wretchedness would he groan aloud, and wish
for unconsciousness to come to his aid and consign to oblivion his
accusing memory.

It was a cold, gray afternoon. Mrs. Maxwell's little kitchen was in
perfect order. The fire shed flickering lights on the bright dish-covers
on the wall, and the blue and white china on the old-fashioned dresser
was touched with a ruddy glow. Mrs. Maxwell herself, seated in a wooden
rocking-chair, in spotless white apron, was knitting busily as she
talked; and Milly on a low stool, the tabby in her arms, with her
golden-brown curls in pretty disorder, and her large dark eyes gazing
earnestly into the fire, completed the picture.

"Do you like winter, Mrs. Maxwell?" she was asking.

"Well, my dear, I can't say as I don't prefer the summer; but
there!--the Almighty sends it, and it must be right, and I don't think
folks have a right to grumble and go rushing off to them foreign parts,
a-leaving their own country and the weather God gives them, because they
say they must have sunshine. I allays thinks they've no sunshine in
their hearts, or they wouldn't be so up and down with the weather."

"I think wint