Every word of this appeal, which seemed as if it were addressed directly to himself, touched a responsive feeling in the bosom of Martin.  One after another, images of other days passed before him—­innocent, happy days.  His mother’s face, his mother’s voice, her very words were present with unwonted vividness.  Then came the recollection of blessed re-unions on the annual Thanksgiving festival.  The rush of returning memories was too strong for the poor, weak, depressed wanderer from home and happiness.  He felt the waters of repentance gathering in his eyes; and he drew his hand suddenly across them, with an instinctive effort to check their flow.  But a fountain, long sealed, had been touched; and, ere he was more than half aware of the tendency of his feelings, a tear came forth and rested on his cheek.  It was brushed away quickly.  Another followed, and another.  The man had lost his self-control.  Into one of the lowest haunts of vice and dissipation the voice of his mother had come, speaking to him words of hope.  Even here had her image followed him, and he saw her with the old smile of love upon her face.  And he saw the smile give way to looks of sorrow, and heard the voice saying, in tones of the tenderest entreaty, “William! my poor wanderer! come home!  Come home!”

Oh! with what deep, heart-aching sincerity did the poor wretch wish that he had never turned aside into the ways of folly.  “If I could but go home and die!” he said, mentally.

“If I could but feel my mother’s hand upon my forehead, and hear her voice again!”

He had remained sitting at the table with the newspaper before his face, to hide from other eyes all signs of emotion.  But, the new feelings awakened were, in no degree, congenial to the gross, depraved, and sensual sphere by which he was surrounded; and, as he had no money left, and, therefore, no means of gratifying his thirst for liquor, there was no inducement for him longer to breathe the polluted atmosphere.  Rising, therefore, he quietly retired; no one asking him to stay or expressing surprise at his departure He had no money to spend at the bar, nor to lose at the gaming. table; and was not, therefore, an object of the slightest interest to any.

As Martin stepped into the street, the cold rain struck him in the face, and the chilly air penetrated his thin, tattered garments.  The driving mist of the early evening had changed to a heavy shower, and the street was covered with water.  Through this he plunged as he crossed over, and entered his boarding-house, dripping from head to foot.  He did not stop to speak with any one, but groped his way, in the dark to the attic.  Removing a portion of his wet clothing, he threw himself upon his bed.  He had not come to sleep, but to be alone that he might think.  But thought grew so painful that he would fain have found relief in slumber, had that been possible.

“If I had never strayed from the right path!” he murmured, as he tossed himself uneasily.  “Oh! if I had never strayed!”