‘No, I cannot catch even a glimpse of him, yet my mind is never easy in his absence; his despondency sometimes makes me fear that—ah! surely yonder I see him moving mournfully among the trees. Yes, ’tis he—he is just at the bridge;—he comes!’
‘Never shall I forget the sensation with which I strained my eyes in the direction which the observation of my mother instructed me in, and I thought I should have sunk to the earth with mingled feelings of the most intense anguish and awe, when my eyes once more beheld my father. But oh, how altered was he! Care had deeply imprinted its furrows on his cheeks, and his form was bent and attenuated. He walked with a feeble step, and at least twenty winters seemed to have passed over his head since I had last beheld him.
‘My God!’ I mentally ejaculated, ‘and are these the terrible consequences of my imprudence? Oh, my poor mother, truly did you say that I had much to atone for!—How can I ever make sufficient reparation for the misery I have occasioned.’
My father at length reached the house, and my mother ran affectionately to meet him.
‘You were wrong to have wandered so far,’ she said, ‘you seem quite exhausted.’
‘No,’ replied my father, ‘’tis only exercise that can divert the mind from gloom; When the mind’s disturbed, the body does not feel fatigued. I’m late, I hope you haven’t waited breakfast for me.’
‘I would not certainly breakfast without you,’ returned my mother; ‘but you are too much heated to sit in this parlor; the breeze is too keen for you; we will go into the inner apartment. Go, and I will take the breakfast things for you.’
‘Well, well, as you please,’ said my father, ‘where is Edwin?’
‘He has gone to make one of the wedding party of Ellen and George,’ answered my mother.
‘A wedding!’ said my father, with a sigh, ‘ah.’