“Ah! yes,” returned the young man, earnestly.  Light broke in upon his darkness.  “I am glad that I have spoken with you, grandfather, for your words give me strength to persevere.  I never knew that I was weak until lately.”

“Such knowledge is precious, my dear son.  We are indeed strongest when the hand of humility removes the veil that hides us from ourselves.”

“Probably such is, the case, but I cannot realize it.  It is with effort that I drag through the day; I am continually looking towards the future, and beholding a thousand perplexing situations where my besetting sins will be called into action.  I see myself incapable of always following out the noble principles I have lately adopted.”

“As thy day is, so shall thy strength be!” said Mr. Monmouth.  “Be careful only to guard yourself against each little stumbling-block as it presents itself, and your mountains will be changed to mole-hills.  Never fear for the future, do as well as you can in the present.”

“But it is so singular that I should feel thus, when I have been trying as hard as a mortal could to change my erroneous views, and to regard all the dispensations of Providence with a resigned heart.  I have cast the selfish thought of my own earthly happiness from my mind as much as possible.”

“And yet there is a repining in your gloominess.  You are not satisfied to bear it.”

“Well, perhaps not.  I am wrong,—­I think that I could submit with true fortitude to an outward trial, but there seems so little reason in my low spirits.  Have you ever felt so, grandfather?”

“Often; and at such times, I devote myself more earnestly than ever to anything which will take my thoughts from myself.”

“I will do so!” replied Alfred, firmly.  “If my purposes are right in the sight of Heaven, I will be supported.”

“True, my son.”

Alfred left the home of his grandsire, more at rest with himself and all the world.  Fresh peaceful hopes again sprang up within him, and he began to see his way clear.  He reasoned himself into resignation, and, as day after day went on, he grew grateful for the privilege and opportunity offered to school his rebellious spirit to order.

Four years passed; Alfred was engaged in the busy world, and he shrunk not from it, but rather sought to do his duty in it.  One summer evening, he was called to enter the large, old-fashioned house of his grandfather.  His brow was thoughtful, but calm and resigned—­he sought a quiet room; it was the chamber of death,—­yet was its stillness beautiful and peaceful; he knelt by a dying couch, and clasped the hand of his aged grandsire—­then he wept, but the unbidden tears were those of gratitude.  The serenity of heaven was upon the countenance of the noble old man.