Ruth Newell, moving back and forth, in the preparation of the stranger's
supper, wore an unquiet and troubled aspect, while the old farmer
himself was agitated in a manner painful to see. It was some seconds
before he broke the silence. When he spoke, his voice was thick and
husky.

"If I had a son like you,--if those little children were my
grandchildren,--if the sweet lady there was my son's wife,--ah,
then!----But it is too late! Why do you come here to put turbulent,
raging regrets into my heart, that but for you would be beating calmly
as it did yesterday, and the day before, and has for years? Ah! if my
son were indeed here! If Samson were indeed here!"

The stranger half arose, as though to spring forward, then sank back
into his seat again.

But the little child sitting in her mother's lap by the fire clapped her
hands and laughed a childish, happy laugh.

"What pleases my little girl?" asked the mother.

"Why, '_Samson_'" the child said,--"_that's what you call papa!_"

Then Ruth, who stood by the table with a pitcher of water in her
hand, staggered backwards like one stricken a violent and sudden
blow!--staggered backwards, dropping the pitcher with a heavy crash as
she retreated, and crossing her hands upon her bosom with quick, short
catchings of the breath! Then crying, "My son! my son!" she threw
herself, with one long, long sob, upon the stranger's neck!

* * * * *

The story is told. What lay in his power was done by the returned
prodigal, who did not come back empty-handed to the paternal roof. His
wife and children fostered and petted the old people, till, after the
passage of two or three more Thanksgiving-Days, they became as cheerful
as of old, and they are now considered one of the happiest couples in
the county. Do not, on that account, O too easily influenced youth,
think that happiness for one's self and others is usually secured by
dissolute habits in early life, or by running away from home. Half the
occupants of our jails and alms-houses can tell you to the contrary.

* * * * *

SONG IN A DREAM.

Winter rose-leaves, silver-white,
Drifting o'er our darling's bed,--
He's asleep, withdrawn from sight,--
All his little prayers are said,
And he droops his shining head.

Winter rose-leaves, falling still,
Go and waken his sad eyes,
Touch his pillowed rest, until
He shall start with glad