rying and laughing by turns, as little children
do--was praising God out loud like a saint, and calling down blessings
on his daughter's head in all the transports of a new-found Heart. What
a world of things they had to tell of--how much to explain, excuse,
forgive, and be forgiven, especially about that wicked letter--how
fervently to make up now for love that long lay dormant--how heartily to
bless each other, and to bless again! Who can record it all? Who can
even sketch aright the heavenly hues that shone about that scene of the
affections? Alas, my pen is powerless--yea, no mortal hand can trace
those heavenly hues. Angels that are round the penitent's, the good
man's bed--ye alone who witness it, can utter what ye see: ye alone,
rejoicingly with those rejoicing, gladly speed aloft frequent
ambassadors to Him, the Lord of Love, with some new beauteous trait,
some rare ecstatic thought, some pure delighted look, some more burning
prayer, some gem of Heaven's jewellery more brilliant than the rest,
which raises happy envy of your bright compeers. I see your shining
bands crowding enamoured round that scene of human tenderness; while now
and then some peri-like seraph of your thronging spiritual forms will
gladly wing away to find favour of his God for a tear, or a prayer, or a
holy thought dropped by his ministering hands into the treasury of
Heaven.

But the cup of joy is large and deep: it is an ocean in capacity: and
mantling though it seemeth to the brim, God's bounty poureth on.

Another step is on the stairs! You have guessed it, Henry Clements.
Returning home wearily, after a disheartening expedition, and finding
his wife, to his great surprise, gone out, sick and weak, as still he
thought her, he had calculated justly on the direction whereunto her
heart had carried her; he had followed her speedily, and, with many
self-compunctions, he had determined to be proud no more, and to help,
with all his heart, in that holy reconciliation. See! at the bed-side,
folding Maria with one arm, and with his other hand tightly clasped in
both of that kind and changed old man's, stands Henry Clements.

Ay, changed indeed! Who could have discovered in that joy-illumined
brow, in those blessing-dropping lips, in those eyes full of penitence,
and pity, and peace, and praise, and prayer, the harsh old usurer--the
crafty money-cankered knave of dim St. Benet's Sherehog--the cold
husband--the cruel father--the man without a he