"Mother," he went on, seeing that she would not speak, "I, too, have beenrebellious; but I am striving to be so no longer. Help me, as you helpedme when I was a child. Then you said many good words--when myfather died, and we were sometimes sorely short of comforts--which weshall never be now; you said brave, noble, trustful words then, mother,which I have never forgotten, though they may have lain dormant.
Speak to me again in the old way, mother. Do not let us have to thinkthat the world has too much hardened our hearts. If you would say theold good words, it would make me feel something of the pioussimplicity of my childhood. I say them to myself, but they would comedifferently from you, remembering all the cares and trials you have hadto bear."
"I have had a many," said she, sobbing, "but none so sore as this. To seeyou cast down from your rightful place! I could say it for myself, John,but not for you. Not for you! God has seen fit to be very hard on you,very."
She shook with the sobs that come so convulsively when an old personweeps. The silence around her struck her at last; and she quieted herselfto listen. No sound. She looked. Her son sate by the table, his armsthrown half across it, his head bent face downwards.
"Oh, John!" she said, and she lifted his face up. Such a strange, pallidlook of gloom was on it, that for a moment it struck her that this look was the forerunner of death; but, as the rigidity melted out of thecountenance and the natural colour returned, and she saw that he washimself once again, all worldly mortification sank to nothing before theconsciousness of the great blessing that he himself by his simpleexistence was to her. She thanked God for this, and this alone, with afervour that swept away all rebellious feelings from her mind.