t the
western sky, the youngest son came running breathlessly up the path.

"So soon returned?" asked his father--which caused a look of
disappointment to pass over the face of the youth; and his words were
shaded with regret as he replied, "I thought you would be glad to see
me, and would rejoice that I got through so quickly."

"Not so, my son," replied the father. "You cannot, in the brief time
you have been absent, have performed many, if any, deeds of goodness
compared with what you might have done by tarrying longer; and your
gold--you surely cannot have used it all in so brief a period."

"Why, I've brought all the money back you gave me, father. You see,
I got through without its costing me a penny."

"It grieves me more than all, my son, that you should go through
any country and return no equivalent for deeds and kindness given. Rest
awhile, and in a few days return to the land and the people I sent you
among, and come not back again to me till every farthing is wisely
spent."

The youth murmured within himself, but dared not reply. A few days
later he departed, to go over the same ground and do the work he had
neglected for the sake of a speedy return.

At the end of the second year another returned, looking sad and
dispirited.

"Thou hast soon returned, my son," said the father. "Is thy work
done in so brief a period?"

The youth hung his head, and answered slowly, "I was so weary, father.
I saw so much sorrow among those people, I longed to come home where
all is rest and peace. Surely, I was right in that, was I not?"

"Far from it, my child. If there was much sorrow there, that was the
very reason why you should have remained. Dost thou not remember
those lines I have so often quoted,--

"'Rest is not quitting the busy career:
Rest is the fitting of self to one's sphere'?"

"I remember them well, father," the youth replied; "but I never felt
their meaning until now."

"And if you sense it now, my son, what is your duty?"

"To return, I suppose."

"But how--cheerfully or otherwise?"

"Gladly and willingly," said the son, born from the old to the higher
self.

"I will provide you with more means," remarked his father, while a
feeling of joy thrilled his being at the thought that his son was going
to give his life to human needs.

They parted on the morrow, though that separation was the nearest
approach of their lives; for they were united by a truth which is ever
the essence of a di