ing in a beautiful home
where he met a number of friends. After they had all gone away,
having left something behind, he went back to get it. There he found
the lady of the house, a wealthy lady, sitting behind a poor fellow
who looked like a tramp. _He was her own son_. Like the prodigal, he
had wandered far away: yet the mother said, "This is my boy; I love
him still." Take a mother with nine or ten children, if one goes
astray, she seems to love that one more than any of the rest.

A leading minister in the state of New York once told me of a father
who was a very bad character. The mother did all she could to prevent
the contamination of the boy; but the influence of the father was
stronger, and he led his son into all kinds of sin until the lad
became one of the worst of criminals. He committed murder, and was
put on his trial. All through the trial, the widowed mother (for the
father had died) sat in the court. When the witnesses testified
against the boy it seemed to hurt the mother much more than the son.
When he was found guilty and sentenced to die, every one else feeling
the justice of the verdict, seemed satisfied at the result. But the
mother's love never faltered. She begged for a reprieve; but that was
denied. After the execution she craved for the body; and this also
was refused. According to custom, it was buried in the prison yard. A
little while afterwards the mother herself died; but, before she was
taken away, she expressed a desire to be buried by the side of her
boy. She was not ashamed of being known as the mother of a murderer.

The story is told of a young woman in Scotland, who left her home,
and became an outcast in Glasgow. Her mother sought her far and wide,
but in vain. At last, she caused her picture to be hung upon the
walls of the Midnight Mission rooms, where abandoned women resorted.
Many gave the picture a passing glance. One lingered by the picture.
It is the same dear face that looked down upon her in her childhood.
She has not forgotten nor cast off her sinning child; or her picture
would never have been hung upon those walls. The lips seemed to open,
and whisper, "Come home; I forgive you, and love you still." The poor
girl sank down overwhelmed with her feelings. She was the prodigal
daughter. The sight of her mother's face had broken her heart. She
became truly penitent for her sins, and with a heart full of sorrow
and shame, returned to her forsaken home; and mother and daugh