“Thompson,” I answered, through my tears, “I am not deserving of your friendship.  You have not offended me.  You have never wronged me.  You are all kindness and truth.  I have had no real enemy but myself.  Read that paper.”

I pointed to the paragraph, and he read it.

“What of it?” he asked.

“Thompson,” listen to me; “what do you say of such a son?”

“I can guess his father’s feelings,” said my friend.  “Earth’s a heaven, Stukely, when father and child live together as God appointed them.”

“But when a child breaks a parent’s heart, Thompson—­what then?”

“Don’t talk about it, lad.  I have got eleven of ’em, and that’s a side of the picture that I can’t look at with pleasure.  I think the boys are good.  They have gone on well as yet; but who can tell what a few years will do?”

“Or a few months, Thompson,” I answered quickly, “or a few days, or hours, when the will is fickle, principles unfixed, and the heart treacherous and false.  That Smithson and I, Thompson, were fellow students.  We left home together—­we took up our abode in the University together—­we were attached to the same college—­taught by the same master—­read from the same books.  My feelings were as warm as his.  My resolution to do well apparently as firm, my knowledge and attainments as extensive.  If he was encouraged, and protected, and urged forward by the fond love of a devoted household—­so was I. If parental blessings hallowed his entrance upon those pursuits which have ended so successfully for him—­so did they mine.  If he had motive for exertion, I had not less—­we were equal in the race which we began together—­look at us now!”

“How did it happen, then?”

“He was honest and faithful to his purpose.  I was not.  He saw one object far in the distance before him, and looked neither to the right nor left, but dug his arduous way towards it.  He craved not the false excitement of temporary applause, nor deemed the opinion of weak men essential to his design.  He had a sacred duty to perform, which left him not the choice of action, and he performed it to the letter.  He had a feeling conscience, and a reasoning heart, and the home of his youth, and the sister who had grown up with him, the father who had laboured, the mother who had striven for him, visited him by night and by day—­in his silent study, and in his lonely bed, comforting, animating, and supporting him by their delightful presence.”

“And what did you do?”

“Just the reverse of this.  I had neither simplicity of aim, nor stability of affection.  One slip from the path, and I hadn’t energy to take the road again.  One vicious inclination, and the virtuous resolves of years melted before it.  The sneer of a fool could frighten me from rectitude—­the smile of a girl render me indifferent to the pangs that tear a parent’s heart.  Look at us both.  Look at him—­the man whom I treated with contemptuous derision.  What a return home for him—­his mission accomplished—­HIS DUTY DONE!  Look at me, the outcast, the beggar, the despised—­the author of a mother’s death, a father’s bankruptcy and ruin—­with no excuse for misconduct, no promise for the future, no self-justification, and no hope of pardon beyond that afforded to the vilest criminal that comes repentant to the mercy throne of God!”