The Immigrant's Story, Chapters III-IV [pp. 109-112]

THE IMMIGR
which followed, it was too easily shown that my
temper, uncontrollable as it was, unfitted me for
the care of children, as well as the performance
of other important duties.
I had not realized the extent of my loss till
this hour. I was never again to have the privilege of folding to my heart the two little ones
who were dearer to me than my own life, and
never again to hear their sweet voices as they
lisped the name of mother, or made my heart
joyous with their childish prattle. They would
be brought up by strangers, perhaps, and taught
to cherish no affectionate remembrances of their
own mother, who still loved them so dearly.
My husband, with whom I had spent so many
blissful hours, and whom I still loved, though I
thought he had been hasty and unjust with me,
would never again call me to his side; and sadder than all things else, was the thought that I
was cast back in disgrace upon the hands of my
poor father, who was now in the decline of life.
I had formerly rejoiced in the thought that it
was in my power to make his life bright and
peaceful as age advanced, and now to bring him
only grief was more than I could endure.
In the days that followed I have no recollection of what passed, for I sank under the weight
of my grief, and was for a long time delirious.
When I again became conscious, my father was
bending kindly over me, together with the servants who had ministered to my wants from infancy, and my first thought was tlhat I was still
a child. But suddenly the truth flashed through
my mind, and in a few moments I was again delirious. After a few days, however, I recovered
my reason and began to nerve myself to endure
the joyless life which was henceforth to be mine.
From my father I received naught but unwearied kindness, while I was looked upon by
the servants as one who had been most unjustly
treated. Each seemed striving, by increased
kindness and devotion, to make me forget as far
as possible my great misfortune. I was most
grateful for this kindness, and strove in every
way to manifest my appreciation of it; but for
me there was no forgetfulness, no joy.
One day, when I had so far recovered from
my illness as to be able to walk about the house,
I went to the bay window, which with me had
always been a favorite spot, in the hope of seeing something that, to some extent at least,
would help to disperse the gloom that rested
upon my mind.
But as I cast my weary eyes over the bright
scene without, it served only to remind me of
the happy, innocent days of my childhood, and
to make me sadder, if possible, than before.
Moreover, it was the same place where, a few
N7'"S STOR r.
III
months before, my father had so earnestly
striven to lead me to the Savior. If I had then
sought Divine aid, I thought, I should have
been able to resist the temptations which subsequently came, and to which, without it, I had
yielded. But I had not, and there was now no
hope of earthly happiness for me, and it seemed
as if God would not now listen to my petitions
for pardon and peace if I should go to him.
A book, which had the appearance of having
been much used, and which I recognized as my
father's Bible, lay in the window near where I
sat. It was the one from which he daily read,
and I had often observed the sweet, heavenly
expression of his face as he arose from a perusal of it, and knew that it betokened the peace
and serenity of his soul. As I took it up, I felt
a new and intense desire to drink in the same
way from that fountain of peace and joy. But
my heart again sank within me at thought of
my unworthiness. I felt that in God's sight I
was the chief of sinners, and I dared hope for
nothing but his frowns. And a feeling akin to
despair began to settle down upon my heart.
With this feeling I opened the book, and on tile
page to which I opened a leaf was turned down
to the following verse: "Come unto me, all ye
that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest."
In an instant my soul was melted. I felt that
it was indeed the voice of God speaking to me,
and that there was, even now, hope of rest and
peace. A sweet sense of God's infinite love
and compassion filled my heart, and I obeyed
the uncontrollable impulse I felt to kneel down
and pour out my soul to him in prayer.
All the contrition that I felt for the errors of
my past life, all the boundless love and gratitude
that welled up out of my heart to Him for this
blessed assurance of his never-failing love, I
tried to express in this prayer. And I felt that
it was heard and accepted, for, when I arose,
that "peace of God whicli passeth all understanding" filled my soul, and I knew that, whatever might be before me in the future, I now
had one unfailing source of light and joy.
CHAPTER IV.
UNEXPECTED CHANGES.
About three years after my return to my father's house, I began to notice a depression of
spirits unusual in him, and, although he said
nothing as to its cause, and tried to appear
cheerful in my presence, I could not be blind to
the fact that something weighed heavily upon
his mind.
I longed to know the cause, but did not like
to question him. One day when he returned
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