THE KIND FATHER.
In one moment, joy may be changed into mourning; but let us never forget that, in one moment, also, mourning may be turned into joy! I will tell you a story to the point.
A woodman, called Wilfred, had an only son, named Maurice. Maurice was the comfort of his father, and the delight of all his friends. He was humane, active, cheerful; where he worked, labour was soothed by mirth; where he was present, leisure was cheered by sport. He always hoped the best, and was ready for the worst; gay, yet prudent; careful, yet generous.
One stormy winter's night, all on a sudden, he was missing. No friend, no neighbour, knew what was become of him; his father sought for him in each hamlet and village around. No tidings of him could be anywhere gained, except that a cotter's boy thought he had seen him, on that fearful night, on the top of the cliff that hangs over the sea. It was enough; all now believed that he had fallen from the awful height, and was lost in the wild waves below. His father pined and became ill; his friends mourned. "Ye should not thus mourn, as those without hope," said the worthy pastor of the parish; "he may be yet alive."—"That is not possible," cried the weeping parent. "All things are possible," was the pious answer of the curate. Sick, weak, and hopeless, Wilfred took to his bed, and was thought to be dying. The doctors said so; his nurse said so. "Perhaps, he may revive," said the curate. "That is not possible," cried the nurse and the doctor. "All things are possible," was again the reply of the good pastor. One calm night, in spring, the curate was called to pray with the dying man. His friends were weeping around him; he himself thought he had not an hour to live; but the curate did not think so. Some one knocks; the latch is quickly raised; the door opens; in an instant, Maurice is in the arms of his father. Oh, joy! Oh, bliss! How can this be? Maurice, it seems, had fallen into the hands of smugglers, who kept him at sea with them, till, by a lucky chance, he made his escape from them. The sight of him was as if life had been poured into the veins of his father. Did he die? No he lived to prove, and to own, that in one moment our sorrow may be turned into joy.