of his past trouble and vexation was for ever gone out of his reach.  He had not been able to press his father’s hand before their parting, and say, “Father, you know it was all right between us; I never forgot what I owed you when I was a lad; you forgive me if I have been too hot and hasty now and then!” Adam thought but little to-day of the hard work and the earnings he had spent on his father:  his thoughts ran constantly on what the old man’s feelings had been in moments of humiliation, when he had held down his head before the rebukes of his son.  When our indignation is borne in submissive silence, we are apt to feel twinges of doubt afterwards as to our own generosity, if not justice; how much more when the object of our anger has gone into everlasting silence, and we have seen his face for the last time in the meekness of death!

“Ah!  I was always too hard,” Adam said to himself.  “It’s a sore fault in me as I’m so hot and out o’ patience with people when they do wrong, and my heart gets shut up against ’em, so as I can’t bring myself to forgive ’em.  I see clear enough there’s more pride nor love in my soul, for I could sooner make a thousand strokes with th’ hammer for my father than bring myself to say a kind word to him.  And there went plenty o’ pride and temper to the strokes, as the devil will be having his finger in what we call our duties as well as our sins.  Mayhap the best thing I ever did in my life was only doing what was easiest for myself.  It’s allays been easier for me to work nor to sit still, but the real tough job for me ’ud be to master my own will and temper and go right against my own pride.  It seems to me now, if I was to find Father at home to-night, I should behave different; but there’s no knowing—­perhaps nothing ’ud be a lesson to us if it didn’t come too late.  It’s well we should feel as life’s a reckoning we can’t make twice over; there’s no real making amends in this world, any more nor you can mend a wrong subtraction by doing your addition right.”

This was the key-note to which Adam’s thoughts had perpetually returned since his father’s death, and the solemn wail of the funeral psalm was only an influence that brought back the old thoughts with stronger emphasis.  So was the sermon, which Mr. Irwine had chosen with reference to Thias’s funeral.  It spoke briefly and simply of the words, “In the midst of life we are in death”—­how the present moment is all we can call our own for works of mercy, of righteous dealing, and of family tenderness.  All very old truths—­but what we thought the oldest truth becomes the most startling to us in the week when we have looked on the dead face of one who has made a part of our own lives.  For when men want to impress us with the effect of a new and wonderfully vivid light, do they not let it fall on the most familiar objects, that we may measure its intensity by remembering the former dimness?