"I don't know, boy. Oh, yes, just some thoughts of your uncle Hubert! but—" and he stared about, "where is the soldier? where is he, Richard? Was I dreaming? Was it Hubert?—has he returned?—where, where is he? Fetch him, Richard."
"I'm here, father;" and Hubert, as well as he was able, knelt before the old man.
"Oh, Hubert!" were the only words that were uttered, for the recognition in one moment was complete; long, very long, the old man wept upon the bosom of his son, and Hubert wept too; young Richard cried, perhaps because his dear old grandfather did; but Martha, the faithful servant of forty years, knew all the sorrows of her good old master—knew, too, all about the wandering sheep that had come home. She remembered when he was a little lamb in the fold, and she mingled the overflowings of her heart with the others; then she went and closed all the casement shutters, for they wished to have the joy of that first meeting to themselves. The prodigal had indeed returned, but friends and neighbours must not come and make merry yet—the fatted calf must not be killed till to-morrow.
No one intruded upon the scenes of Hubert's home on the evening of his return. The joy of once again seeing him—the answer to so many prayers—came as a new link in the chain of the old man's existence; he would have no supplication, no confession from his erring son: it was enough that the wanderer had returned; and it was more than enough; it was a joy that he had often prayed for, though his hope of knowing it had long since died, that Hubert might become a child of God. Poor old man! how tenderly and lovingly he strained his long-lost son to his bosom! and the most severe reproofs, denied forgiveness, or the bitterest reproaches, would not have been so hard for Hubert to endure as the tender affection of his deeply-injured father.
Night closed around, and the old man sat later by the fireside than he had done for years, for much of life's vigour had returned with his hopes and joy; he breathed the evening prayers with a deeper fervour; he joined in the evening hymn with a voice less tremulous than the others, and he walked without his staff to his bed.
Poor bereaved heart! nearly all had been taken from him; none save the little orphan grandson had been left for him to love; the waters of affliction had rolled deeply over his head; but the heart, consecrated to heaven, had learnt to bow meekly to the rod, and now the most bitter cup of his life had been filled with joy. "Thy will be done," was the old man's closing prayer, as he lay down upon his pillow that night, and there was a holy calmness upon his brow, for peace and gratitude filled his heart.
Different, indeed, were the feelings Hubert endured; and, as he shut himself in his bed-room—the bed-room of his boyhood—there was a deep struggle in his heart. More vividly than ever came the sins of his past life before him, and great indeed was the remorse he felt for the long years of woe he had caused. How he longed to tell all his repentance to his father! but the old man had forgiven him without: it would not, however, wipe away the sin he had committed; and the remembrance was like an inward fire—burning and burning continually. There was One, however, who would listen to his woe; and Hubert, on bended knee, poured it out from his swelling heart; no eloquence, no effort was needed; and as the hours of that night of deep repentance passed on, Hubert drew nearer and nearer to his Father in heaven, and the chastened heart became lightened; then he sank to sleep as calmly as his father had done.