times when she stopped to exchange a few words with a neighbour at the conclusion of the service, in the little row of elm-trees which leads to the church-porch, or lingered behind to gaze with a mother's pride and fondness upon her healthy boy, as he sported before her with some little companions, her care-worn face would lighten up with an expression of heartfelt gratitude; and she would look, if not cheerful and happy, at least tranquil and contented.

Five or six years passed; the boy had become a robust and well-grown youth. The time that had strengthened the child's slight frame and knit his weak limbs into the strength of manhood had bowed his mother's form and enfeebled her steps; but the arm that should have supported her was no longer locked in hers; the face that should have cheered her no more looked upon her own. She occupied her old seat, but there was a vacant one beside her. The Bible was kept as carefully as ever, the places were found and folded down as they used to be, but there was no one to read it with her; and the tears fell thick and fast upon the book, and blotted the words from her eyes. Neighbours were as kind as they were wont to be of old, but she shunned their greetings with averted head. There was no lingering among the old elm-trees now, no cheering anticipation of happiness yet in store. The desolate woman drew her bonnet closer over her face, and walked hurriedly away.

Shall I tell you that the young man, who, looking back to the earliest of his childhood's days to which memory and consciousness extended, and carrying his recollection down to that moment, could remember nothing which was not in some way connected with a long series of voluntary privations suffered by his mother for his sake, with ill-usage, and insult, and violence, and all endured for him; shall I tell you that he, with a reckless disregard of her breaking heart, and a sullen wilful forgetfulness for all she had done and borne for him, had linked himself with depraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing a headlong career, which must bring death to him and shame to her? Alas for human nature! You have anticipated it long since.

The measure of the unhappy woman's misery and misfortune was about to be completed. Numerous offences had been committed in the neighbourhood; the perpetrators remained undiscovered, and their boldness increased. A robbery of a daring and aggravated nature occasioned a vigilance of pursuit and a strictness of search they had not calculated on. Young Edmunds was suspected with three companions. He was apprehended, committed, tried, condemned-to die.

The wild and piercing shriek from a woman's voice, which resounded through the court when

the solemn sentence was pronounced, rings in my ears at this present moment. That cry struck a terror to the culprit's heart, which trial, condemnation, the approach of death itself, had failed to awaken. The lips which had been compressed in dogged sullenness throughout, quivered and parted involuntarily; the face turned ashy pale as the cold perspiration broke forth from every pore; the sturdy limbs of the felon trembled, and he staggered in the dock.

In the first transports of her mental anguish the suffering mother threw herself upon her knees at my feet, and fervently besought the Almighty Being, who had hitherto supported her in all her troubles, to release her from a world of woe and misery, and to spare the life of her only child. A burst of grief, and a violent struggle, such as I hope I may never have to witness again, succeeded. I knew that her heart was breaking from that hour; but I never once heard complaint or murmur escape her lips.

It was

It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison-yard from day to day, eagerly and fervently attempting by affection and entreaty, to soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. in vain. He remained moody, obstinate, and unmoved. Not even the unlooked for commutation of his sentence to transportation for fourteen years softened for an instant the sullen hardihood of his demeanour.

But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so long upheld her was unable to contend against bodily weakness and infirmity. She fell sick. She dragged her tottering limbs from the bed to visit her son once more, but her strength failed her, and she sank powerless on the ground.

And now, the boasted coldnesss and indifference of the young man were tested indeed; and the retribution that fell heavily upon him nearly drove him mad. A day passed away and his mother was not there; another flew by, and she came not near him; a third evening arrived, and yet he had not seen her; and in four-and-twenty hours he was to be separated from her-perhaps for ever.

I bore the mother's forgiveness and blessing to her son in prison; and I carried his solemn assurance of repentance, and his fervent supplication for pardon, to her sick-bed. I heard with pity and compassion, the repentant man devise a thousand little plans for her comfort and support, when he returned; but I knew that many months before he could reach his place of destination his mother would be no longer of this world.

He was removed by night. A few weeks afterwards the poor woman's soul took its flight, I confidently hope and solemnly believe, to a place of eternal happiness and rest. I performed the burial-service over her remains. She lies in our little churchyard. There is no stone at her grave's

walking peacefully to church.

how he used to look up into her pale face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she gazed upon his features-tears which fell hot upon his forehead as she stooped to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he little knew then what bitter tears hers were. He thought how often he had run merrily down that path with some childish playfellow, looking back ever and again, to catch his mother's smile, or hear her gentle voice; and then a veil seemed lifted from his memory, and words of kindness unrequited, and warnings despised, and promises broken, thronged upon his recollection till his heart failed him, and he could bear it no longer.

He entered the church. The evening service was concluded, and the congregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed. His steps echoed through the low building with a hollow sound, and he almost feared to be alone, it was so still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was changed.

An old man entered the porch just as he reached it. Edmunds started back, for he knew him well; many a time he had watched him digging graves in the churchyard. What would he say to the returned convict?

The old man raised his eyes to the stranger's face, bade him "Good evening," and walked slowly He had forgotten him.

on.

:

The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth, casting a rich glow on the yellow corn-sheaves, and lengthening the shadows of the orchard trees, as he stood before the old housethe home of his infancy-to which his heart had yearned with an intensity of affection not to be described, through long and weary years of captivity and sorrow. The paling was low, though he wellremembered the time when it had seemed a high wall to him and he looked over into the old garden. There were more seeds and gayer flowers than there used to be, but there were the old trees still the very tree under which he had lain a thousand times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft mild sleep of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices within the house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear; he knew them not. They were merry too; and he well knew that his poor old mother could not be cheerful and he away. The door opened, and a group of little children, bounded out, shouting and romping. The father, with a little boy in his arms, appeared at the door, and they crowded round him, clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out to join their joyous sports. The convict thought on the many times he had shrunk from his father's sight in that very place. He remembered how often he had buried his trembling head beneath the bed-clothes, and heard

And such was the return to which he had looked through the weary perspective of many years, and for which he had undergone so much suffering! No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness, no house to receive, no hand to help him-and this, too, in the old village. What was his loneliness in the wild thick woods, where man was never seen, to this!

He felt that in the distant land of his bondage and infamy, he had thought of his native place as it was when he left it; not as it would be, when he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at his heart, and his spirits sank within him. He had not courage to make inquiries, or to present himself to the only person who was likely to receive him with kindness and compassion. He walked slowly on; and shunning the roadside like a guilty man, turned into a meadow he well remembered; and, covering his face with his hands, threw himself upon the grass, where a man was already lying beside him; his workhouse garments rustled as he turned round to steal a look at the newcomer; and Edmunds raised his head.

The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered, and tottered to his feet. Edmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two. Edmunds advanced.

"Let me hear you speak," said the convict in a thick broken voice.

"Stand off!" cried the old man, with an oath. The convict drew closer.

"Stand off!" shrieked the old man. Furious with terror he raised his stick, and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face.

"Father-devil!" murmured the convict between his set teeth. He rushed wildly forward, and clenched the old man by the throat; but he was his father, and his arm fell powerless by his side.

The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fields like the howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black the gore rushed from his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a deep dark red, as he staggered and fell, rupturing a blood-vessel and he was a dead man before his son could raise him.

In that corner of the churchyard-in that corner of the churchyard of which I have before spokenthere lies buried a man who was in my employment for three years after this event: and who was truly contrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever man was. No one save myself knew in that man's lifetime who he was, or whence he came : it was John Edmunds, the returned convict.