d not
love him. One penetrating word from Mr. Cardew thrilled every fibre in
her, no matter what the subject might be. Tom, in every mood and on
every topic, was uninteresting and ordinary. To tell the truth, plain,
common probity taken by itself was not attractive to her. Horses, dogs,
cows, the fields were more stimulant than perfect integrity, for she was
young and did not know how precious it was; but, after all, the reason of
reasons why she did not love Tom was that she did not love him.

It was announced one day by small handbills in the shop windows that a
sermon was to be preached by Mr. Cardew, of Abchurch, in Eastthorpe, on
behalf of the County Infirmary, and Catharine went to hear him. It was
in the evening, and she was purposely late. She did no go to her
mother's pew, but sat down close to the door. To her surprise she saw
Tom not far off. He was on his way to his chapel when he noticed
Catharine alone, walking towards the church, and he had followed her. Mr.
Cardew took for his text the parable of the prodigal son. He began by
saying that this parable had been taken to be an exhibition of God's love
for man. It seemed rather intended to set forth, not the magnificence of
the Divine nature, but of human nature--of that nature which God assumed.
The determination on the part of the younger son to arise, to go to his
father, and above everything to say to him simply, "Father, I have
sinned," was as great as God is great: it was God--God moving in us; in a
sense it was far more truly God--far greater than the force which binds
the planets into a system. But the splendour of human nature--do not
suppose any heresy here; it is Bible truth, the very gospel--is shown in
the father as well as in the son.

"When he was yet a great way off." We are as good as told then, that day
after day the father had been watching. How small were the probabilities
that at any particular hour the son would return, and yet every hour the
father's eyes were on that long, dusty road! When at last he saw what he
was dying to see, what did he say? Was there a word of rebuke? He
stopped his boy's mouth with kisses and cried for the best robe and the
ring and the shoes, and proclaimed a feast--the ring, mark you, a sign of
honour!

"Say nothing of pardon; the darkness hath gone:
Shall pardon be asked for the night by the sun?
No word of the past; of the future no fear:
'Tis enough, my beloved, to know thou