AN OLD-FASHIONED CARD-PARTY―THECLERGYMAN’S VERSES―THE STORY OF THECONVICT’S RETURNeveral guests who were assembled in the old parlour roseto greet Mr. Pickwick and his friends upon their entrance;and during the performance of the ceremony ofintroduction, with all due formalities, Mr. Pickwick had leisure toobserve the appearance, and speculate upon the characters andpursuits, of the persons by whom he was surrounded―a habit inwhich he, in common with many other great men, delighted toindulge.

　　A very old lady, in a lofty cap and faded silk gown―no less apersonage than Mr. Wardle’s mother―occupied the post ofhonour on the right-hand corner of the chimney-piece; andvarious certificates of her having been brought up in the way sheshould go when young, and of her not having departed from itwhen old, ornamented the walls, in the form of samplers of ancientdate, worsted landscapes of equal antiquity, and crimson silk tea-kettle holders of a more modern period. The aunt, the two youngladies, and Mr. Wardle, each vying with the other in payingzealous and unremitting attentions to the old lady, crowded roundher easy-chair, one holding her ear-trumpet, another an orange,and a third a smelling-bottle, while a fourth was busily engaged inpatting and punching the pillows which were arranged for hersupport. On the opposite side sat a bald-headed old gentleman,with a good-humoured, benevolent face―the clergyman ofDingley Dell; and next him sat his wife, a stout, blooming old lady,who looked as if she were well skilled, not only in the art andmystery of manufacturing home-made cordials greatly to otherpeople’s satisfaction, but of tasting them occasionally very much toher own. A little hard-headed, Ripstone pippin-faced man, wasconversing with a fat old gentleman in one corner; and two orthree more old gentlemen, and two or three more old ladies, satbolt upright and motionless on their chairs, staring very hard atMr. Pickwick and his fellow-voyagers.

　　‘Mr. Pickwick, mother,’ said Mr. Wardle, at the very top of hisvoice.

　　‘Ah!’ said the old lady, shaking her head; ‘I can’t hear you.’

　　‘Mr. Pickwick, grandma!’ screamed both the young ladiestogether.

　　‘Ah!’ exclaimed the old lady. ‘Well, it don’t much matter. Hedon’t care for an old ’ooman like me, I dare say.’

　　‘I assure you, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, grasping the old lady’shand, and speaking so loud that the exertion imparted a crimsonhue to his benevolent countenance―‘I assure you, ma’am, thatnothing delights me more than to see a lady of your time of lifeheading so fine a family, and looking so young and well.’

　　‘Ah!’ said the old lady, after a short pause: ‘it’s all very fine, Idare say; but I can’t hear him.’

　　‘Grandma’s rather put out now,’ said Miss Isabella Wardle, in alow tone; ‘but she’ll talk to you presently.’

　　Mr. Pickwick nodded his readiness to humour the infirmities ofage, and entered into a general conversation with the othermembers of the circle.

　　‘Delightful situation this,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Delightful!’ echoed Messrs. Snodgrass, Tupman, and Winkle.

　　‘Well, I think it is,’ said Mr. Wardle.

　　‘There ain’t a better spot o’ ground in all Kent, sir,’ said thehard-headed man with the pippin-face; ‘there ain’t indeed, sir―I’m sure there ain’t, sir.’ The hard-headed man lookedtriumphantly round, as if he had been very much contradicted bysomebody, but had got the better of him at last.

　　‘There ain’t a better spot o’ ground in all Kent,’ said the hard-headed man again, after a pause.

　　‘’Cept Mullins’s Meadows,’ observed the fat man solemnly.

　　‘Mullins’s Meadows!’ ejaculated the other, with profoundcontempt.

　　‘Ah, Mullins’s Meadows,’ repeated the fat man.

　　‘Reg’lar good land that,’ interposed another fat man.

　　‘And so it is, surely,’ said a third fat man.

　　‘Everybody knows that,’ said the corpulent host.

　　The hard-headed man looked dubiously round, but findinghimself in a minority, assumed a compassionate air and said nomore. ‘What are they talking about?’ inquired the old lady of oneof her granddaughters, in a very audible voice; for, like many deafpeople, she never seemed to calculate on the possibility of otherpersons hearing what she said herself.

　　‘About the land, grandma.’

　　‘What about the land?―Nothing the matter, is there?’

　　‘No, no. Mr. Miller was saying our land was better thanMullins’s Meadows.’

　　‘How should he know anything about it?’ inquired the old ladyindignantly. ‘Miller’s a conceited coxcomb, and you may tell him Isaid so.’ Saying which, the old lady, quite unconscious that shehad spoken above a whisper, drew herself up, and looked carving-knives at the hard-headed delinquent.

　　‘Come, come,’ said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety tochange the conversation, ‘what say you to a rubber, Mr.

　　Pickwick?’

　　‘I should like it of all things,’ replied that gentleman; ‘but praydon’t make up one on my account.’

　　‘Oh, I assure you, mother’s very fond of a rubber,’ said Mr.

　　Wardle; ‘ain’t you, mother?’

　　The old lady, who was much less deaf on this subject than onany other, replied in the affirmative.

　　‘Joe, Joe!’ said the gentleman; ‘Joe―damn that―oh, here he is;put out the card―tables.’

　　The lethargic youth contrived without any additional rousing toset out two card-tables; the one for Pope Joan, and the other forwhist. The whist-players were Mr. Pickwick and the old lady, Mr.

　　Miller and the fat gentleman. The round game comprised the restof the company.

　　The rubber was conducted with all that gravity of deportmentand sedateness of demeanour which befit the pursuit entitled‘whist’―a solemn observance, to which, as it appears to us, thetitle of ‘game’ has been very irreverently and ignominiouslyapplied. The round-game table, on the other hand, was soboisterously merry as materially to interrupt the contemplations ofMr. Miller, who, not being quite so much absorbed as he ought tohave been, contrived to commit various high crimes andmisdemeanours, which excited the wrath of the fat gentleman to avery great extent, and called forth the good-humour of the old ladyin a proportionate degree.

　　‘There!’ said the criminal Miller triumphantly, as he took up theodd trick at the conclusion of a hand; ‘that could not have beenplayed better, I flatter myself; impossible to have made anothertrick!’

　　‘Miller ought to have trumped the diamond, oughtn’t he, sir?’

　　said the old lady.

　　Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.

　　‘Ought I, though?’ said the unfortunate, with a doubtful appealto his partner.

　　‘You ought, sir,’ said the fat gentleman, in an awful voice.

　　‘Very sorry,’ said the crestfallen Miller.

　　‘Much use that,’ growled the fat gentleman.

　　‘Two by honours―makes us eight,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Another hand. ‘Can you one?’ inquired the old lady.

　　‘I can,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Double, single, and the rub.’

　　‘Never was such luck,’ said Mr. Miller.

　　‘Never was such cards,’ said the fat gentleman.

　　A solemn silence; Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious,the fat gentleman captious, and Mr. Miller timorous.

　　‘Another double,’ said the old lady, triumphantly making amemorandum of the circumstance, by placing one sixpence and abattered halfpenny under the candlestick.

　　‘A double, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Quite aware of the fact, sir,’ replied the fat gentleman sharply.

　　Another game, with a similar result, was followed by a revokefrom the unlucky Miller; on which the fat gentleman burst into astate of high personal excitement which lasted until the conclusionof the game, when he retired into a corner, and remained perfectlymute for one hour and twenty-seven minutes; at the end of whichtime he emerged from his retirement, and offered Mr. Pickwick apinch of snuff with the air of a man who had made up his mind toa Christian forgiveness of injuries sustained. The old lady’shearing decidedly improved and the unlucky Miller felt as muchout of his element as a dolphin in a sentry-box.

　　Meanwhile the round game proceeded right merrily. IsabellaWardle and Mr. Trundle ‘went partners,’ and Emily Wardle andMr. Snodgrass did the same; and even Mr. Tupman and thespinster aunt established a joint-stock company of fish andflattery. Old Mr. Wardle was in the very height of his jollity; and hewas so funny in his management of the board, and the old ladieswere so sharp after their winnings, that the whole table was in aperpetual roar of merriment and laughter. There was one old ladywho always had about half a dozen cards to pay for, at whicheverybody laughed, regularly every round; and when the old ladylooked cross at having to pay, they laughed louder than ever; onwhich the old lady’s face gradually brightened up, till at last shelaughed louder than any of them, Then, when the spinster auntgot ‘matrimony,’ the young ladies laughed afresh, and the Spinsteraunt seemed disposed to be pettish; till, feeling Mr. Tupmansqueezing her hand under the table, she brightened up too, andlooked rather knowing, as if matrimony in reality were not quite sofar off as some people thought for; whereupon everybody laughedagain, and especially old Mr. Wardle, who enjoyed a joke as muchas the youngest. As to Mr. Snodgrass, he did nothing but whisperpoetical sentiments into his partner’s ear, which made one oldgentleman facetiously sly, about partnerships at cards andpartnerships for life, and caused the aforesaid old gentleman tomake some remarks thereupon, accompanied with divers winksand chuckles, which made the company very merry and the oldgentleman’s wife especially so. And Mr. Winkle came out withjokes which are very well known in town, but are not all known inthe country; and as everybody laughed at them very heartily, andsaid they were very capital, Mr. Winkle was in a state of greathonour and glory. And the benevolent clergyman lookedpleasantly on; for the happy faces which surrounded the tablemade the good old man feel happy too; and though the merrimentwas rather boisterous, still it came from the heart and not from thelips; and this is the right sort of merriment, after all.

　　The evening glided swiftly away, in these cheerful recreations;and when the substantial though homely supper had beendespatched, and the little party formed a social circle round thefire, Mr. Pickwick thought he had never felt so happy in his life,and at no time so much disposed to enjoy, and make the most of,the passing moment.

　　‘Now this,’ said the hospitable host, who was sitting in greatstate next the old lady’s arm-chair, with her hand fast clasped inhis―‘this is just what I like―the happiest moments of my life havebeen passed at this old fireside; and I am so attached to it, that Ikeep up a blazing fire here every evening, until it actually growstoo hot to bear it. Why, my poor old mother, here, used to sitbefore this fireplace upon that little stool when she was a girl;didn’t you, mother?’

　　The tear which starts unbidden to the eye when the recollectionof old times and the happiness of many years ago is suddenlyrecalled, stole down the old lady’s face as she shook her head witha melancholy smile.

　　‘You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr.

　　Pickwick,’ resumed the host, after a short pause, ‘for I love itdearly, and know no other―the old houses and fields seem likeliving friends to me; and so does our little church with the ivy,about which, by the bye, our excellent friend there made a songwhen he first came amongst us. Mr. Snodgrass, have you anythingin your glass?’

　　‘Plenty, thank you,’ replied that gentleman, whose poeticcuriosity had been greatly excited by the last observation of hisentertainer. ‘I beg your pardon, but you were talking about thesong of the Ivy.’

　　‘You must ask our friend opposite about that,’ said the hostknowingly, indicating the clergyman by a nod of his head.

　　‘May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir?’ said Mr.

　　Snodgrass.

　　‘Why, really,’ replied the clergyman, ‘it’s a very slight affair; andthe only excuse I have for having ever perpetrated it is, that I wasa young man at the time. Such as it is, however, you shall hear it, ifyou wish.’

　　A murmur of curiosity was of course the reply; and the oldgentleman proceeded to recite, with the aid of sundry promptingsfrom his wife, the lines in question. ‘I call them,’ said he,THE IVY GREENOh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,That creepeth o’er ruins old!

　　Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,In his cell so lone and cold.

　　The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,To pleasure his dainty whim;And the mouldering dust that years have made,Is a merry meal for him.

　　Creeping where no life is seen,A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

　　Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,And a staunch old heart has he.

　　How closely he twineth, how tight he clingsTo his friend the huge Oak Tree!

　　And slily he traileth along the ground,And his leaves he gently waves,As he joyously hugs and crawleth roundThe rich mould of dead men’s graves.

　　Creeping where grim death has been,A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

　　Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,And nations have scattered been;But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,From its hale and hearty green.

　　The brave old plant in its lonely days,Shall fatten upon the past;For the stateliest building man can raise,Is the Ivy’s food at last.

　　Creeping on where time has been,A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

　　While the old gentleman repeated these lines a second time, toenable Mr. Snodgrass to note them down, Mr. Pickwick perusedthe lineaments of his face with an expression of great interest. Theold gentleman having concluded his dictation, and Mr. Snodgrasshaving returned his note-book to his pocket, Mr. Pickwick said―‘Excuse me, sir, for making the remark on so short anacquaintance; but a gentleman like yourself cannot fail, I shouldthink, to have observed many scenes and incidents worthrecording, in the course of your experience as a minister of theGospel.’

　　‘I have witnessed some certainly,’ replied the old gentleman,‘but the incidents and characters have been of a homely andordinary nature, my sphere of action being so very limited.’

　　‘You did make some notes, I think, about John Edmunds, didyou not?’ inquired Mr. Wardle, who appeared very desirous todraw his friend out, for the edification of his new visitors.

　　The old gentleman slightly nodded his head in token of assent,and was proceeding to change the subject, when Mr. Pickwicksaid―‘I beg your pardon, sir, but pray, if I may venture to inquire,who was John Edmunds?’

　　‘The very thing I was about to ask,’ said Mr. Snodgrass eagerly.

　　‘You are fairly in for it,’ said the jolly host. ‘You must satisfy thecuriosity of these gentlemen, sooner or later; so you had bettertake advantage of this favourable opportunity, and do so at once.’

　　The old gentleman smiled good-humouredly as he drew hischair forward―the remainder of the party drew their chairs closertogether, especially Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt, who werepossibly rather hard of hearing; and the old lady’s ear-trumpethaving been duly adjusted, and Mr. Miller (who had fallen asleepduring the recital of the verses) roused from his slumbers by anadmonitory pinch, administered beneath the table by his ex-partner the solemn fat man, the old gentleman, without furtherpreface, commenced the following tale, to which we have takenthe liberty of prefixing the title ofTHE CONVICT’S RETURN‘When I first settled in this village,’ said the old gentleman, ‘whichis now just five-and-twenty years ago, the most notorious personamong my parishioners was a man of the name of Edmunds, wholeased a small farm near this spot. He was a morose, savage-hearted, bad man; idle and dissolute in his habits; cruel andferocious in his disposition. Beyond the few lazy and recklessvagabonds with whom he sauntered away his time in the fields, orsotted in the ale-house, he had not a single friend or acquaintance;no one cared to speak to the man whom many feared, and everyone detested―and Edmunds was shunned by all.

　　‘This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here,was about twelve years old. Of the acuteness of that woman’ssufferings, of the gentle and enduring manner in which she borethem, of the agony of solicitude with which she reared that boy, noone can form an adequate conception. Heaven forgive me thesupposition, if it be an uncharitable one, but I do firmly and in mysoul believe, that the man systematically tried for many years tobreak her heart; but she bore it all for her child’s sake, and,however strange it may seem to many, for his father’s too; forbrute as he was, and cruelly as he had treated her, she had lovedhim once; and the recollection of what he had been to her,awakened feelings of forbearance and meekness under sufferingin her bosom, to which all God’s creatures, but women, arestrangers.

　　‘They were poor―they could not be otherwise when the manpursued such courses; but the woman’s unceasing and unweariedexertions, early and late, morning, noon, and night, kept themabove actual want. These exertions were but ill repaid. Peoplewho passed the spot in the evening―sometimes at a late hour ofthe night―reported that they had heard the moans and sobs of awoman in distress, and the sound of blows; and more than once,when it was past midnight, the boy knocked softly at the door of aneighbour’s house, whither he had been sent, to escape thedrunken fury of his unnatural father.

　　‘During the whole of this time, and when the poor creatureoften bore about her marks of ill-usage and violence which shecould not wholly conceal, she was a constant attendant at our littlechurch. Regularly every Sunday, morning and afternoon, sheoccupied the same seat with the boy at her side; and though theywere both poorly dressed―much more so than many of theirneighbours who were in a lower station―they were always neatand clean. Every one had a friendly nod and a kind word for “poorMrs. Edmunds”; and sometimes, when she stopped to exchange afew words with a neighbour at the conclusion of the service in thelittle row of elm-trees which leads to the church porch, or lingeredbehind to gaze with a mother’s pride and fondness upon herhealthy boy, as he sported before her with some little companions,her careworn face would lighten up with an expression of heartfeltgratitude; and she would look, if not cheerful and happy, at leasttranquil and contented.

　　‘Five or six years passed away; the boy had become a robustand well-grown youth. The time that had strengthened the child’sslight frame and knit his weak limbs into the strength of manhoodhad bowed his mother’s form, and enfeebled her steps; but thearm that should have supported her was no longer locked in hers;the face that should have cheered her, no more looked upon herown. She occupied her old seat, but there was a vacant one besideher. The Bible was kept as carefully as ever, the places were foundand folded down as they used to be: but there was no one to read itwith her; and the tears fell thick and fast upon the book, andblotted the words from her eyes. Neighbours were as kind as theywere wont to be of old, but she shunned their greetings withaverted head. There was no lingering among the old elm-treesnow-no cheering anticipations of happiness yet in store. Thedesolate woman drew her bonnet closer over her face, and walkedhurriedly away.

　　‘Shall I tell you that the young man, who, looking back to theearliest of his childhood’s days to which memory andconsciousness extended, and carrying his recollection down tothat moment, could remember nothing which was not in some wayconnected with a long series of voluntary privations suffered byhis mother for his sake, with ill-usage, and insult, and violence,and all endured for him―shall I tell you, that he, with a recklessdisregard for her breaking heart, and a sullen, wilful forgetfulnessof all she had done and borne for him, had linked himself withdepraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing aheadlong career, which must bring death to him, and shame toher? Alas for human nature! You have anticipated it long since.

　　‘The measure of the unhappy woman’s misery and misfortunewas about to be completed. Numerous offences had beencommitted in the neighbourhood; the perpetrators remainedundiscovered, and their boldness increased. A robbery of a daringand aggravated nature occasioned a vigilance of pursuit, and astrictness of search, they had not calculated on. Young Edmundswas suspected, with three companions. He was apprehended―committed―tried―condemned―to die.

　　‘The wild and piercing shriek from a woman’s voice, whichresounded through the court when the solemn sentence waspronounced, rings in my ears at this moment. That cry struck aterror to the culprit’s heart, which trial, condemnation―theapproach of death itself, had failed to awaken. The lips which hadbeen compressed in dogged sullenness throughout, quivered andparted involuntarily; the face turned ashy pale as the coldperspiration broke forth from every pore; the sturdy limbs of thefelon trembled, and he staggered in the dock.

　　‘In the first transports of her mental anguish, the sufferingmother threw herself on her knees at my feet, and fervently soughtthe Almighty Being who had hitherto supported her in all hertroubles to release her from a world of woe and misery, and tospare the life of her only child. A burst of grief, and a violentstruggle, such as I hope I may never have to witness again,succeeded. I knew that her heart was breaking from that hour; butI never once heard complaint or murmur escape her lips.

　　‘It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison-yardfrom day to day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection andentreaty, to soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. It was invain. He remained moody, obstinate, and unmoved. Not even theunlooked-for commutation of his sentence to transportation forfourteen years, softened for an instant the sullen hardihood of hisdemeanour.

　　‘But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so longupheld her, was unable to contend against bodily weakness andinfirmity. She fell sick. She dragged her tottering limbs from thebed to visit her son once more, but her strength failed her, and shesank powerless on the ground.

　　‘And now the boasted coldness and indifference of the youngman were tested indeed; and the retribution that fell heavily uponhim nearly drove him mad. A day passed away and his mother wasnot there; another flew by, and she came not near him; a thirdevening arrived, and yet he had not seen her―, and in four-and-twenty hours he was to be separated from her, perhaps for ever.

　　Oh! how the long-forgotten thoughts of former days rushed uponhis mind, as he almost ran up and down the narrow yard―as ifintelligence would arrive the sooner for his hurrying―and howbitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolation rushed uponhim, when he heard the truth! His mother, the only parent he hadever known, lay ill―it might be, dying―within one mile of theground he stood on; were he free and unfettered, a few minuteswould place him by her side. He rushed to the gate, and graspingthe iron rails with the energy of desperation, shook it till it rangagain, and threw himself against the thick wall as if to force apassage through the stone; but the strong building mocked hisfeeble efforts, and he beat his hands together and wept like a child.

　　‘I bore the mother’s forgiveness and blessing to her son inprison; and I carried the solemn assurance of repentance, and hisfervent supplication for pardon, to her sick-bed. I heard, with pityand compassion, the repentant man devise a thousand little plansfor her comfort and support when he returned; but I knew thatmany months before he could reach his place of destination, hismother would be no longer of this world.

　　‘He was removed by night. A few weeks afterwards the poorwoman’s soul took its flight, I confidently hope, and solemnlybelieve, to a place of eternal happiness and rest. I performed theburial service over her remains. She lies in our little churchyard.

　　There is no stone at her grave’s head. Her sorrows were known toman; her virtues to God.

　　‘It had been arranged previously to the convict’s departure, thathe should write to his mother as soon as he could obtainpermission, and that the letter should be addressed to me. Thefather had positively refused to see his son from the moment of hisapprehension; and it was a matter of indifference to him whetherhe lived or died. Many years passed over without any intelligenceof him; and when more than half his term of transportation hadexpired, and I had received no letter, I concluded him to be dead,as, indeed, I almost hoped he might be.

　　‘Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance upthe country on his arrival at the settlement; and to thiscircumstance, perhaps, may be attributed the fact, that thoughseveral letters were despatched, none of them ever reached myhands. He remained in the same place during the whole fourteenyears. At the expiration of the term, steadily adhering to his oldresolution and the pledge he gave his mother, he made his wayback to England amidst innumerable difficulties, and returned, onfoot, to his native place.

　　‘On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, JohnEdmunds set foot in the village he had left with shame anddisgrace seventeen years before. His nearest way lay through thechurchyard. The man’s heart swelled as he crossed the stile. Thetall old elms, through whose branches the declining sun cast hereand there a rich ray of light upon the shady part, awakened theassociations of his earliest days. He pictured himself as he wasthen, clinging to his mother’s hand, and walking peacefully tochurch. He remembered how he used to look up into her pale face;and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she gazedupon his features―tears which fell hot upon his forehead as shestooped to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he littleknew then what bitter tears hers were. He thought how often hehad run merrily down that path with some childish playfellow,looking back, ever and again, to catch his mother’s smile, or hearher gentle voice; and then a veil seemed lifted from his memory,and words of kindness unrequited, and warnings despised, andpromises broken, thronged upon his recollection till his heartfailed him, and he could bear it no longer.

　　‘He entered the church. The evening service was concluded andthe congregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed. Hissteps echoed through the low building with a hollow sound, and healmost feared to be alone, it was so still and quiet. He lookedround him. Nothing was changed. The place seemed smaller thanit used to be; but there were the old monuments on which he hadgazed with childish awe a thousand times; the little pulpit with itsfaded cushion; the Communion table before which he had so oftenrepeated the Commandments he had reverenced as a child, andforgotten as a man. He approached the old seat; it looked cold anddesolate. The cushion had been removed, and the Bible was notthere. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer seat, or possiblyshe had grown infirm and could not reach the church alone. Hedared not think of what he feared. A cold feeling crept over him,and he trembled violently as he turned away.

　　‘An old man entered the porch just as he reached it. Edmundsstarted back, for he knew him well; many a time he had watchedhim digging graves in the churchyard. What would he say to thereturned convict?

　　‘The old man raised his eyes to the stranger’s face, bade him“good-evening,” and walked slowly on. He had forgotten him.

　　‘He walked down the hill, and through the village. The weatherwas warm, and the people were sitting at their doors, or strollingin their little gardens as he passed, enjoying the serenity of theevening, and their rest from labour. Many a look was turnedtowards him, and many a doubtful glance he cast on either side tosee whether any knew and shunned him. There were strange facesin almost every house; in some he recognised the burly form ofsome old schoolfellow―a boy when he last saw him―surroundedby a troop of merry children; in others he saw, seated in an easy-chair at a cottage door, a feeble and infirm old man, whom he onlyremembered as a hale and hearty labourer; but they had allforgotten him, and he passed on unknown.

　　‘The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth,casting a rich glow on the yellow corn sheaves, and lengtheningthe shadows of the orchard trees, as he stood before the oldhouse―the home of his infancy―to which his heart had yearnedwith an intensity of affection not to be described, through long andweary years of captivity and sorrow. The paling was low, thoughhe well remembered the time that it had seemed a high wall tohim; and he looked over into the old garden. There were moreseeds and gayer flowers than there used to be, but there were theold trees still―the very tree under which he had lain a thousandtimes when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft, mild sleepof happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices withinthe house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear; heknew them not. They were merry too; and he well knew that hispoor old mother could not be cheerful, and he away. The dooropened, and a group of little children bounded out, shouting andromping. The father, with a little boy in his arms, appeared at thedoor, and they crowded round him, clapping their tiny hands, anddragging him out, to join their joyous sports. The convict thoughton the many times he had shrunk from his father’s sight in thatvery place. He remembered how often he had buried his tremblinghead beneath the bedclothes, and heard the harsh word, and thehard stripe, and his mother’s wailing; and though the man sobbedaloud with agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist was clenched,and his teeth were set, in a fierce and deadly passion.

　　‘And such was the return to which he had looked through theweary perspective of many years, and for which he had undergoneso much suffering! No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness, nohouse to receive, no hand to help him―and this too in the oldvillage. What was his loneliness in the wild, thick woods, whereman was never seen, to this!

　　‘He felt that in the distant land of his bondage and infamy, hehad thought of his native place as it was when he left it; and not asit would be when he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at hisheart, and his spirit sank within him. He had not courage to makeinquiries, or to present himself to the only person who was likelyto receive him with kindness and compassion. He walked slowlyon; and shunning the roadside like a guilty man, turned into ameadow he well remembered; and covering his face with hishands, threw himself upon the grass.

　　‘He had not observed that a man was lying on the bank besidehim; his garments rustled as he turned round to steal a look at thenew-comer; and Edmunds raised his head.

　　‘The man had moved into a sitting posture. His body was muchbent, and his face was wrinkled and yellow. His dress denoted himan inmate of the workhouse: he had the appearance of being veryold, but it looked more the effect of dissipation or disease, than thelength of years. He was staring hard at the stranger, and thoughhis eyes were lustreless and heavy at first, they appeared to glowwith an unnatural and alarmed expression after they had beenfixed upon him for a short time, until they seemed to be startingfrom their sockets. Edmunds gradually raised himself to his knees,and looked more and more earnestly on the old man’s face. Theygazed upon each other in silence.

　　‘The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered and tottered tohis feet. Edmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two.

　　Edmunds advanced.

　　‘“Let me hear you speak,” said the convict, in a thick, brokenvoice.

　　‘“Stand off!” cried the old man, with a dreadful oath. Theconvict drew closer to him.

　　‘“Stand off!” shrieked the old man. Furious with terror, heraised his stick, and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face.

　　‘“Father―devil!” murmured the convict between his set teeth.

　　He rushed wildly forward, and clenched the old man by thethroat―but he was his father; and his arm fell powerless by his‘The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonelyfields like the howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black, the gorerushed from his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a deep, darkred, as he staggered and fell. He had ruptured a blood-vessel, andhe was a dead man before his son could raise him.

　　‘In that corner of the churchyard,’ said the old gentleman, aftera silence of a few moments, ‘in that corner of the churchyard ofwhich I have before spoken, there lies buried a man who was inmy employment for three years after this event, and who was trulycontrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever man was. No one savemyself knew in that man’s lifetime who he was, or whence hecame―it was John Edmunds, the returned convict.’