foot of the Cross; and while you pray for the forgiveness of your past sins, make a firm resolve, in the strength of the Lord, that your future life shall be given to His service; if you do this with sincerity, you shall surely find rest unto your souls.  You need have no fears that you will be rejected, for hath not the Saviour said:—­Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.  You may, this very night, exchange your burden of sin and sorrow for the yoke which is easy and the burden which is light.’

“I have,” said Miss Simmonds, “a distinct recollection of the look and manner of that aged man as he uttered these words, and it is a matter of heartfelt thankfulness to me the day that ever I heard his voice; for he it was who first guided my wandering feet into the paths of peace.  When I returned to my home the words of that good man followed me.  I thought much on the words of his text.  Surely, thought I, if all are invited to come to the Saviour, I must be included in the number.  Why may I not go now?  With these thoughts in my mind, I kneeled in prayer.  I prayed earnestly for the pardon of my sins and resolved, from that moment, to begin a new life.  Before rising from my knees I experienced a sense of pardoning love, and I was happy.

“It was now that I became sensible of the wrong I had been guilty of, in allowing my sorrow to cause me to neglect my duties, for there is no one in any station of life but has claims of duty.  I again engaged actively in the duties of life, with a feeling of thankfulness that I was privileged to cheer the declining years of my parents.  Year after year passed away.  I still remained with my father and mother; and I felt no wish to leave them, although I had more than one opportunity for so doing.  My mother died at the age of sixty-five.  I nursed her tenderly through a long and painful illness, and closed her eyes in death.  My father and I were now left alone in our home.  He was several years older than my mother.  The infirmities of age were coming fast upon him.”

CHAPTER XVII.

PENITENT, AND FORGIVEN.

On a stormy evening, like this, we were sitting together in this room when our attention was arrested by a timid knock at the door.  My father opened the door, and I heard some one, in a feeble voice, ask permission to enter the house.  My father conducted the stranger in, and gave him a seat by our cheerful fire.  When the stranger entered the room, and I gained a view of his face, I at once knew that I stood face to face with George Almont.  When I suddenly pronounced his name, my father made a hasty movement as if to speak with anger, but I gave him an imploring look and he remained silent.  Although greatly changed, it was, nevertheless, George Almont who was now in our presence.  After a few moments of silence, for after my exclamatory utterance of his name, neither of us had spoken, he turned his eyes,