They knelt: a deep and earnest prayer fell from the pastor's lips upon the stillness of the hour, and the tear upon the cheek told its power on the heart. The prayer was over, and the good man, bidding them adieu for the present, left them to rejoice over the once lost one, while he, in the spirit of his mission, withdrew himself from the world, and thanked God for having brought back the wandering sheep.

Hubert's return had filled his father with such joy that he would scarcely tell him anything about the family, so anxious was he to hear all about himself; and it was some time after his arrival before he heard of all the bereavement of that household. All gone! all whom he had left in the beauty and strength of youth, when he went out to India, had been swept to the tomb; not one left round that desolate hearth, except the little orphan Richard, now nine years old, the only child of his second brother, who, with his young wife, had sunk into an early grave. One by one the hand of death had taken them from the fireside, and it was now his turn to mourn them. He saw plainly now how it was that his father had received him so fondly. Poor old man! his home had been sadly lonely; the household gods had been all broken, and his aged heart nearly so. Hubert looked at his father as he told the history of each one as they had departed, and conscience told him that there was before him a braver warrior than he had ever seen before—one who had fought a stern battle, and had ever been in the thickest of the fight. Hubert's heart beat; he felt that he had added heavily to the burden and heat of his father's day, and, falling upon his knee before his parent, he cried, as his hands covered his face, "Oh, father, forgive me!"

"Forgive you! Oh, Hubert, did I forget to say I had forgiven you long ago? There is nothing now to forgive, but I bless you for coming home. Let the past be the past. Bless you for coming home to me! God is good; He gave, He has a right to take, but He has given you to me again." But the truth seemed to shine upon the old man's mind, and putting his arm round Hubert's neck, he said—

"Ah! well, it's all forgiven; you might have done other than you have done, perhaps; but never mind;" and he wept tears of joy upon the bosom of his son. This little rebuke from Hubert's father was more welcome than the caresses he received, and Hubert opened his heart upon it, and began to tell his father of things which had befallen him in India; hitherto he had seldom spoken, except in answer to his father's many questions, for there was a weight of remorse in his bosom which nothing yet had removed; but now he was assured of his father's forgiveness, and a smile lighted up his hitherto sad face, as they sat round the fire telling many a story of his distant home; his father was delighted, and young Richard drew his little chair beside his veteran uncle, to listen also. Many a week passed by; Hubert had ever something to tell his father, but of all the history of the past, or of all the fame he had won, nothing was so dear to the old man's heart as the "torn Bible;" he made Hubert tell again and again all about it, its long neglect, and its abuse. The field of battle, the capture, and the rescue from the Indians, and even the dreadful night in the jungle, when Hubert's life-blood was draining from his wounds, were nothing compared with the strong will broken, the heart subdued, and the torn, despised Bible giving back a new and better life to the prodigal. Oh, how the old man loved to dwell upon that! many prayers from the long since silent heart had been answered then, and he ever repeated in Hubert's ear the words, "Oh, yes, she knew all about it, for she was one of the angels in heaven that rejoiced when you repented."

Hubert grew happier in the society of his father; and though at times a kind of reflection on his past life would cast a sort of thoughtful sadness over his brow, yet his health daily improved, and his heart became more and more attuned to the will of God.

CHAPTER XIII.

AT REST.

Gales from heaven, if so He will,
Sweeter melodies can wake
On the lonely mountain rill
Than the meeting waters make.
Who hath the Father and the Son,
May be left, but not alone.—Keble.

Years rolled away. Hubert's history in the village became almost a thing of the past; the young, who had paid a sort of homage to him for his warrior fame, had almost forgotten it, and had grown up to reverence him for his goodness; and the aged, as he sat by many a dying bed, blessed him with their latest breath. Ever, day by day, did Hubert take his staff and go forth to comfort some less favoured brother; and the "torn Bible"—guide of his present life—accusing, yet dear relic of his past, soothed many a departing spirit, and helped to ripen his own for Eternity.