“It’s fifteen years ago since he left my house,” said Mr. Thompson, “a rovier and a prodigal.  I was myself a man of sin, O Christian friends,—­a man of wrath and bitterness” ("Amen,” from the eldest Miss Smith),—­“but praise be God, I’ve fled the wrath to come.  It’s five years ago since I got the peace that passeth understanding.  Have you got it, friends?” (A general sub-chorus of “No, no,” from the girls, and, “Pass the word for it,” from Midshipman Coxe, of the U. S. sloop Wethersfield.) “Knock, and it shall be opened to you.

“And when I found the error of my ways, and the preciousness of grace,” continued Mr. Thompson, “I came to give it to my son.  By sea and land I sought him far, and fainted not.  I did not wait for him to come to me, which the same I might have done, and justified myself by the Book of books, but I sought him out among his husks, and—­” (the rest of the sentence was lost in the rustling withdrawal of the ladies).  “Works, Christian friends, is my motto.  By their works shall ye know them, and there is mine.”

The particular and accepted work to which Mr. Thompson was alluding had turned quite pale, and was looking fixedly toward an open door leading to the veranda, lately filled by gaping servants, and now the scene of some vague tumult.  As the noise continued, a man, shabbily dressed, and evidently in liquor, broke through the opposing guardians, and staggered into the room.  The transition from the fog and darkness without to the glare and heat within evidently dazzled and stupefied him.  He removed his battered hat, and passed it once or twice before his eyes, as he steadied himself, but unsuccessfully, by the back of a chair.  Suddenly, his wandering glance fell upon the pale face of Charles Thompson; and with a gleam of childlike recognition, and a weak, falsetto laugh, he darted forward, caught at the table, upset the glasses, and literally fell upon the prodigal’s breast.

“Sha’ly! yo’ d——­d ol’ scoun’rel, hoo rar ye!”

“Hush—­sit down!—­hush!” said Charles Thompson, hurriedly endeavoring to extricate himself from the embrace of his unexpected guest.

“Look at ’m!” continued the stranger, unheeding the admonition, but suddenly holding the unfortunate Charles at arm’s length, in loving and undisguised admiration of his festive appearance.  “Look at ’m!  Ain’t he nasty?  Sha’ls, I’m prow of yer!”

“Leave the house!” said Mr. Thompson, rising, with a dangerous look in his cold, gray eye.  “Char-les, how dare you?”

“Simmer down, ole man!  Sha’ls, who’s th’ ol’ bloat?  Eh?”

“Hush, man; here, take this!” With nervous hands, Charles Thompson filled a glass with liquor.  “Drink it and go—­until to-morrow—­any time, but—­leave us!—­go now!” But even then, ere the miserable wretch could drink, the old man, pale with passion, was upon him.  Half carrying him in his powerful arms, half dragging him through the circling crowd of frightened guests, he had reached the door, swung open by the waiting servants, when Charles Thompson started from a seeming stupor, crying,—­