you a thousand pound," Warrington
said.

"How d'ye mean a thousand? it was only a pony, sir," replied the Major
simply, at which the other laughed.

As for Helen, she was so delighted, that she started up, and said, "God
bless you--God for ever bless you, Mr. Warrington;" and kissed both his
hands, and ran up to Pen, and fell into his arms.

"Yes, dearest mother," he said as he held her to him, and with a noble
tenderness and emotion, embraced and forgave her. "I am innocent, and my
dear, dear mother has done me a wrong."

"Oh yes, my child, I have wronged you, thank God, I have wronged you!"
Helen whispered. "Come away, Arthur--not here--I want to ask my child to
forgive me--and--and my God, to forgive me; and to bless you, and love
you, my son."

He led her, tottering, into her room, and closed the door, as the three
touched spectators of the reconciliation looked on in pleased silence.
Ever after, ever after, the tender accents of that voice faltering
sweetly at his ear--the look of the sacred eyes beaming with
an affection unutterable--the quiver of the fond lips smiling
mournfully--were remembered by the young man. And at his best moments,
and at his hours of trial and grief, and at his times of success or
well-doing, the mother's face looked down upon him, and blessed him with
its gaze of pity and purity, as he saw it in that night when she yet
lingered with him; and when she seemed, ere she quite left him, an
angel, transfigured and glorified with love--for which love, as for the
greatest of the bounties and wonders of God's provision for us, let us
kneel and thank Our Father.

The moon had risen by this time; Arthur recollected well afterwards how
it lighted up his mother's sweet pale face. Their talk, or his rather,
for she scarcely could speak, was more tender and confidential than
it had been for years before. He was the frank and generous boy of her
early days and love. He told her the story, the mistake regarding which
had caused her so much pain--his struggles to fly from temptation, and
his thankfulness that he had been able to overcome it. He never would
do the girl wrong, never; or wound his own honour or his mother's
pure heart. The threat that he would return was uttered in a moment of
exasperation, of which he repented. He never would see her again. But
his mother said yes he should; and it was she who had been proud and
culpable--and she would like to give Fanny Bolton something--and she
be