In the evening, Henry and his father met, for the first time, face to face, since they parted in anger on one side and grief on the other.  When Kate came home with the latter on the night previous, Henry had managed to enter the house before them, and so kept out of his father’s way.  Now, on coming in from his work, he found him already at home, and so changed in appearance, that he gazed upon him with a surprise which he could not at first conceal.

“Henry, my son,” said Mr. Ellis, in a kind, self-possessed tone of voice, and he reached out his hand as he spoke.

The boy took his father’s hand, and looked earnestly into his face.

“Henry, how long have you been with Mr. Wilson?” inquired Mr. Ellis.

“Two years, sir,” was answered.

The father looked at the boy’s hands, and sighed.  They were hard and discolored from labour.

“Tell Mr. Wilson, in the morning,” said he, “that I wish you to leave him after this week.”

“Sir!” Henry looked surprised.

“Tell him that I wish you to go to school for a year or two.”

“Father!” The blood flew suddenly to the lad’s face.  For a few moments he looked at his father; then turning, he passed quickly into the adjoining room.  In the stillness that followed, were audible the sobs that came from his overflowing heart.

A week, a month, a year have passed, yet the promise of that happy time is dimmed not by a single cloud.  Firm in his better purpose and fully sustained at home, Henry Ellis is walking steadily the path of safety.  Home is what it ever should have been, the pleasantest place in all the world; for she who is its sunlight never meets him with a clouded face.  His desert has, indeed, blossomed as the rose.  May the bloom and fragrance thereof never fade nor lose its sweetness!

The end.

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