r
seaport-town some miles down the coast; he was walking in that
direction, but he did not acknowledge a purpose.

How splendid was the night! a night of magnificent constellations, of
flashing auroras, of many meteors; and he saw the comet, which he and
Columbia had looked for since its first announcement. But the heavens
might as well have been "hung in black." Chilled by more than the wintry
wind, he went his way. When the sun rose, he was still wandering on.
Light, heaven-deep, shone on land and sea. He sat down to rest, and to
order himself for future movements: for the town was now in sight; in an
hour or two he should come to the busy streets; already he could discern
the lofty spires, and the tall masts of the great vessels.

Yes,--he would find a situation on one of those ships. He would go out
as supercargo to China, or India, or Spain. He could get a situation
without difficulty, for he was well known in the town. Then, after he
had sailed, word could go back to his father and mother.

So, then, he should go to sea? Of course. It was now arranged,--to
foreign ports. He should see foreign people, and visit ancient places.
The strange would have advantage over the familiar. He did not desire
death. He had not that weakness, not being worn out by sickness, and
having never used this life as abusing it. The friends he loved were
living; his affections were strong. No, he could not think of death
without a shudder, for Love was on the earth. Yet--what had he to do
with Love? By her own election _she_ was no more to him than a hundred
others as good and fair might prove. Must he be so weak as to go through
life regretting? Not he, Silas Swift!

By-and-by he rose up from the sand. I think his face must have
resembled, then, the face of Elijah when the Lord inquied, with the
still, small voice, "What dost thou here?" For, as he arose, he looked
back on the waste by which he came,--his face turned homewards. Ay, and
his steps likewise; and not with indecision, as though fearing when he
surrendered to himself and One mightier.

Do they tell us filial reverence is a forgotten virtue? Silas was going
home. Child, do you call him coward? Perhaps he was that,--no, not even
yesterday, for the yesterday was capable of to-day! Do you, then, say,
with a doubting smile, "Love! Love!" Yea, verily, Love! The mount of God
takes up your word, so feebly and falsely spoken, and the echo is like
thunder whose fire can destroy. Ye