the hearts of the richer, let the reader determine.  And, again, it was upon the women his tale made the tenderest impression.  Whatever maybe the condition of woman, however sad her experience in life, however deplorable her lot, however low she may be sunk in degradation, it is hard to find one of her sex in whom sensibility is extinguished.  With her, kindness is an instinct.  The heart throbs of necessity to a story of sorrow, and the eye overflows with pity.

But the diligence of Holden was in vain, and, at last, he was obliged to confess that he knew not what further to do, unless he took his staff in hand and wandered over the world in prosecution of his search.

“And that will I do, Thomas,” he said, as one day he returned from his inquiry, “if naught else can be done.  My trust is in the Lord, and He doth not mock.  He despiseth not the sighing of the heart, nor hath He made the revelation and put this confidence into my mind in vain.  I know in whom I have trusted, and that He is faithful and true.”

Whatever might have been the opinion of Pownal, he was incapable of uttering a word to discourage Holden, or of inflicting unnecessary pain.  “Why should I,” he said, “dampen his enthusiasm?  Small, as seems to me, the chance of ever discovering his son, it is, after all, mere opinion.  Things more wonderful than such a discovery have happened.  By me, at least, he shall be sustained and encouraged.  Disappointment, if it comes, will come soon enough.  I will not be its ill-omened herald.”  He, therefore, said, in reply—­

“Esther’s story is certainly true.  Our researches corroborate its truth.  We have found the house, and a person of the name she gave, did live in it at the time she mentioned.”

“They satisfy thee, Thomas; but I have a more convincing proof—­an internal evidence—­even as the sure word of prophecy.  It speaks to me like a sweet voice, at mine uprising and lying down, and bids me be strong and of good cheer, for the day of deliverance draweth nigh.  Doubt not, but believe that, in His good time, the rough places shall be made smooth, and the darkness light.  And yet, shall I confess it unto thee, that, sometimes, a sinful impatience mastereth me?  I forget, that the little seed must lie for a time in the earth, and night succeed day and day night, and the dew descend and the rain fall, and the bright sun shine, and his persuasive heat creep into the bosom of the germ before its concealed beauty can disclose itself, and the lovely plant—­the delight of every eye—­push up its coronal of glory.  But, it is a transitory cloud, and I cry, Away! and it departeth, and I say unto my heart, Peace, be still, and know that I am God!”

“It would seem,” said Pownal, “that there is often a connection between the presentiments of the mind and an approaching event.  How frequently does it happen, for instance, that one, without knowing why, begins to think of a person, and that, almost immediately, the person will present himself.