wer of thought, and she at length found a partial
relief from her sorrow by writing small works for publication. But how
is it all this time with the wandering "Prodigal?" Nine years have
passed away since he left his home, when an agent for the sale of books
for a large publishing house was spending a few days in one of the large
cities of the west. During his stay in the place, his business as agent
often led him into public places, and on several occasions he noticed a
young man that attracted his attention. There was nothing prepossessing
in his appearance; on the contrary he bore the marks of dissipation in
his countenance; his clothing was old and soiled, and once or twice he
saw him when partially intoxicated. The agent was a middle-aged man, and
was a close observer of those with whom he came in contact, and somehow
or other he felt a strange interest in this young man for which he could
not account; and meeting him so frequently, he determined to speak to
him. As a pretext for accosting him he offered to sell him some books,
although he had no hopes of success. The young man regarded him with
visible surprise, when he enquired if he would not like to purchase a
book. "I have no money to spend for books," replied the man, yet as if
unable to resist the impulse, he leaned over the table, on which the
agent had placed several books, and began looking them over; and finally
selecting one, enquired the price, and paid for it. They soon after
parted, and the agent thought they should probably meet no more, as he
expected soon to leave the city. He returned to the hotel where he
boarded, and after tea seated himself on the piazza, to enjoy the cool
evening air; when the same young man suddenly approached him, and
grasping his hand said in a voice choked with emotion: "Tell me, Sir,
where, O where did you get that book?" This young man was the erring but
still loved son of the Virginian widow, who for these long dreary years
had roamed over the earth, unfriended and unaided, vainly imagining his
own arm sufficient towards the ills of life. He had wandered here from
the coasts of the Pacific, where he had been wrecked; his money was
nearly gone, and his health had become impaired by hardship and exposure
as well as his dissipated course of life. As he afterwards said, he had
no intention of reading the book when he purchased it, merely out of
civility to the stranger who accosted him so kindly, but after the agent
left hi