Years rolled by and Stanley still cherished the hope that some day “permission” would come for him to go home.  He grew very fast and became rather a fine-looking young man.  Once, emboldened by a particularly kind letter from his mother, he made the request that he should be allowed to go home for a few days.  “If you will let me come home even for one day, dearest mother,” he wrote, “I will come right back content, and father will not need to see me at all.  I want to stand once more before that beautiful Tissot picture of Christ holding the wounded lamb in his arms, and I would like to see the hawthorn hedge when it is in bloom as it will be soon, and above all, dear mother, I want to see you.  And I will come directly away.”

He held this letter for many days, and was only emboldened to send it by Mrs. Corbett’s heartiest assurances that it was a splendid letter and that his mother would like it!

“I do not want to give my mother trouble,” he said.  “She has already had much trouble with me; but it might make her more content to see me and to know that I am so well—­and happy.”

After the letter had been sent, Stanley counted the days anxiously, and on the big map of Canada that hung on the kitchen wall he followed its course until it reached Halifax, and then his mind went with it tossing on the ocean.

“I may get my answer any day after Friday,” he said.  “Of course I do not expect it right off—­it will take some little time for mother to speak to father, and, besides, he might not be at home; so I must not be disappointed if it seems long to wait.”

Friday passed and many weeks rolled by, and still Stanley was hopeful.  “They are considering,” he said, “and that is so much better than if they refused; and perhaps they are looking about a boat—­I think that must be what is keeping the letter back.  I feel so glad and happy about it, it seems that permission must be coming.”

In a month a bulky parcel came to him by express.  It contained a framed picture of the Good Shepherd carrying the lost lamb in his arms; a box of hawthorn blossoms, faded but still fragrant, and a book which gave directions for playing solitaire in one hundred and twenty-three ways!!

Mrs. Corbett hastened to his room when she heard the cry of pain that escaped his lips.  He stood in the middle of the floor with the book in his hand.  All the boyishness had gone out of his face, which now had the spent look of one who has had a great fright or suffered great pain.  The book on solitaire had pierced through his cloudy brain with the thought that his was a solitary part in life, and for a few moments he went through the panicky grief of the faithful dog who finds himself left on the shore while his false master sails gayly away!

“I will be all right directly,” he stammered, making a pitiful effort to control his tears.

Mrs. Corbett politely appeared not to notice, and went hastily downstairs, and although not accustomed to the use of the pen, yet she took it in hand and wrote a letter to Stanley’s father.