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Show RJCIIAHD HUIW!8. "Yes, but you m:~y w:mt tlu.•m wlJCn the HCx t ycnr's crop 1s to be put into t!to g round." " llardly, sir-but if I sl1ould, I will tlJCil cliarge you nothing for their time. It slwll be my loss." "No, that it sllall not be, Riclwrd; you 8l1all have what !~ right since yon lc:n·e it :dtogether to me. And now, good-L7. I 'll Jc.1ve you with yom· mother and go into tile woods; yuu can tdwnys t:~lk more freely witl1 her, th:.m you arc willing to talk with me ; I don't know why, unless it is that I lmvc some d--d surly ways about me. 'L'ell l1er if' you want Ull)'tldng from me, or if I can do nnytl1ing for you, don't spnre your speccl1-let 11cr know it, and if it's to be do11e at all, l'Jl do it. I won't palaver with you n.Lout my love :md all that soft stuff, but I do love you, Richard, ns a mnn and no sneak. Good-by, boy-good-by and take care of' yourself:" Tlms, after l1is own rough fashion, my fnther spoke his p.'lrting. A fountain of good fccliHg w.1s warm and playing at l1is Leart, though it seemctl stolid tlllcl impenctr;J L!c ns the rocky smface tl1nt siJUt it in. lle wns cold, ::wd }Jldcgmatic in his manner only. One Inll'l·icd embrace was tnken, and seizing his s taff1 he disappeared in another instant fi·OJn my .sight. 'J'lJo soul of my mother seemed to cxp:md nt his tlcparture. llis presence r estrained l1cr; and with more than woman's strengl11, she kept down~ wililc under the inspection of his stern ~md piercing eye, all of tl1c warmth and tenderness of woman-of a mother. ~< l1fy son, my son, you leave me1 you leave me doubly unhappy-unlwppy as yon leave me and }Jel'11aps for everunhappy :JS you leave rnc with a deadly enmity raging in your breast against your brotl1er. Could you forget this enmity-could you forgive }Jim before you go, I should be 11alf~rcconcilcd to your departure. I could bear to look for you daily and to find you not- to call for you hourly, and to have no answer-to dream of your coming, and wnke only to desire to dremn again. Can you not forgive l1im, U.icharc~ 1 'roll me that you will. I pray you, my son, to grant me tlus, as a gift and a blessing to myself. I will pray llca\'Cn for all g ifts upon you in return. 'l'hink, my son, slwuld dcntl1 come among us - should one of us be taken during the time l<'.\IHO:Wi·:LL TO 110:\!E. 57 you tl1iuk to Lc gone-hoi\' drcndfulto tl1ink of tl1c finn) scpar. ation without peace being made beti\'Ccn us. J.('t there be peace, my son. Dismiss your enmity to J ohn. You know not tlrat he has wronged you-you know not th:~t he lms used any im proper arts witl1 :Mary - but if l1e has, my son-admitting that he lws, still I prny you to forgive l1im. '\Vhcrcforc .should you not forgive him 1 Of wlwt usc to cl1erislJ anger 1 You can uot contend wit!J h im in violence; you nrust not, you dnre not 1 as you vnlue a moth er's blessing, as you tlrca.tl a mothet"1S curse. Such violence would not avnil to do you justice; it could not give you what you have lost. T o mnintnin wratb is to maiutaiu a curse thnt will devour all your substnncc and l:tstly dC\·our yourself. lJJcss y our poor mother, lliclwrd, and take her blessing in return. Grant l1cr JH·ayct·, nnd all her prayers will go along with you for cver.10 " .Mother, Llcss lll<', for I do forgive llim.10 Sucl1 were my spontaneous words. They came from my uninstructed, untutored impulse, and at the moment when I uttered tiJcm, I believed fcn ·eutly, tlwt they c:tme from the bottom of my hc.1rt. I fc~u· that I deceived myself. I felt a fte rward, ns if I had not forgiven , nud could not forgive him. llut wltcn I spoke, I thought I l1a.d, and could ; 10t have spoken otherwise. Her own \'Oluminons ml(l jJ:tssiou:~tc appeal, had overcome me, and her impulse Lore mine ;dong with it. I may hnvc decciYcd her, Lut I as ccrtninly deceived myself. llc it so. 'rhc error was a p ious one, n.nd mnde l1cr happy; ns hnppy, at lcnst, as, at tJ1at moment, she could well be. I Heed not d well upon our parting. I t was one of mixed }Min and plc:tsltl'e. It g rieve>d me to sec how much she sull'crcd, yet it gratified my pride to find how grcally I wns beloved. Ouco taught l10w delicious was the one feeling of pleasure which Ruch a trinl brougltt with it, I fCcl- I fear - that I could freely l1avc inflicted the pain n second time, if sure to enjoy the pleasure. Such is our selfishness. Onr vanity sti ll subdues our sufferings, and our pride derives its most grateful aliment from that which is, or should be, our grief. In au hour I wns on the road with my companion, and far out of I1eariug of my mother's voice. And yet-I heard it. 3• |