father told me to get my hat and take a walk with him. We turned down a narrow lane into a fine open field—a favourite play-ground for the children in the neighbourhood.

After talking cheerfully on the different topics for a while, my father asked me if I observed that huge shadow, thrown by a mass of rocks that stood in the middle of the field. I replied that I did.

"My father owned this land," said he. "It was my play-ground when a boy. The rock stood there then. To me it is a beacon, and whenever I look at it, I recal a dark spot in my life, an event so painful to dwell upon, that if it were not as a warning to you I should not speak of it. Listen, then, my dear boy, and learn wisdom from your father's

errors.

-

"My father died when I was a mere child. I was the only son. My mother was a gentle, loving woman, devoted to her children, and beloved by everybody. I remember her pale, beautiful face, her sweet, affectionate smile,-her kind and tender voice. In my childhood I loved her sincerely. I was never happy apart from her, and she, fearing that I was becoming too much of a baby, sent me to the high school in the village. After associating a time with rude, rough boys, I lost, in a measure, my fondness for home and my reverence for my mother; and it became more and more difficult for her to restrain my impetuous nature. I thought it indicated a want of manliness to yield to her authority, or to appear penitent, although I knew that my conduct pained her. The epithet I most dreaded was girl-boy. I could not bear to hear it said by my companions that Iwas tied to my mother's apron-strings. From a quiet, home-loving child, I became a wild, roistering boy. My dear mother used every persuasion to induce me to seek happiness within the precincts of home. She exerted herself to make our fire-side attractive, and my sister, following her self-sacrificing example, sought to entice me by planning games and diversions for my entertainment. I saw all this, but did not heed it till it was too late.

"It was on an afternoon like this, that as I was about leaving the dining-table, to spend the intermission between morning and evening school in the street as usual, my mother laid her hand on my shoulder, and said mildly, but firmly, 'My son, I wish you to come with me.' I would have rebelled, but something in her manner awed me. She put on her bonnet, and said to me, 'We will take a little walk together.' I followed her in silence; and as I was passing out of the door, I observed one of my rude companions skulking about the house, and I knew he was waiting for me. He sneered as

I went past him. My pride was wounded to the quick. He was a very bad boy, and being some years older than myself, he exercised a great influence over me. I followed my mother sulkily, till we reached the spot where we now stand, beneath the shadow of this huge rock. Oh, my boy, could that hour be blotted from my memory, which has cast a dark shadow over my whole life, gladly would I exchange all that the world can offer me for the quiet peace of mind I should enjoy. But no! like this huge, unsightly pile, stands the monument of my guilt for ever.

"My mother, being feeble in health, sat down, and beckoned me to sit down beside her. Her look, so full of tender sorrow is present to me now. I would not sit, but still continued standing beside her. 6 Alfred, my dear son,' said she, have you lost all love for your mother? I did not reply. I fear you have,' she contiuued: 'and may God help you to see your own heart, and me to do my duty.' She then talked to me of my misdeeds, of the dreadful consequences of the course I was pursuing. By tears and entreaties, and prayer, she tried to make an impression on me. She placed before me the lives and examples of great and good men; she sought to stimulate my ambition. I was moved, but too proud to show it, and remained standing in dogged silence beside her.

I thought, What will my companions say, if, after all my boasting, I yield at last, and submit to be led by a

woman.

"What agony was visible on my mother's face, when she saw that all she said and suffered failed to move me. She rose to go home, and I followed at a distance.

"She spoke no more to me till we reached our own door. "It is school-time now,' said she. 'Go, my son, and once more let me beseech you to think upon what I have said.'

"I shan't go to school,' said I.

"She looked astonished at my boldness, but replied firmly, Certainly, you will go,-Alfred, I command you.'

"I will not,' said I, with a tone of defiance.

"One of the two things you must do, Alfred, either go to school this moment, or I will lock you in your room, and keep you there till you are ready to promise implicit obedience to my wishes in future.'

"I dare you to do it,' said I; 'you can't get me upstairs.'

"Alfred, choose now,' said my mother, who laid her hand upon my arm. She trembled violently, and was deadly pale.

"If you touch me I will kick you,' said I, in a terrible rage. God knows I know not what I said.

"Will you go, Alfred?'

"No,' I replied, but quailed beneath her eyes.

"Then follow me,' said she, as she grasped my arm firmly. I raised my foot,-oh, my son, hear me! I raised my foot and kicked her, my sainted mother! Oh, my head reels as the torrent of memory rushes over me! I kicked my mother -a feeble woman-my mother! She staggered back a few steps, and leaned against the wall. She did not look at me. I saw her heart beat against her breast. 'Oh, heavenly Father,' she cried, 'forgive him, he knows not what he does!' The gardener just then passed the door, and seeing my mother pale, and almost unable to support herself, he stopped; she beckoned him in, 'Take this boy upstairs, and lock him in his own room,' said she, and turned from me. Looking back as she was entering her own room, she gave me such a lookit will for ever follow me. It was a look of agony, mingled with the intensest love; it was the last unutterable pang from a heart that was broken.

"In a moment I found myself a prisoner in my own room. I thought, for a moment, I would fling myself from the window, and dash my brains out, but I felt afraid to die. I was not penitent. At times my heart was subdued, but my stubborn pride rose in an instant and bade me not to yield. The pale face of my mother haunted me. I flung myself on the bed, and fell asleep, I woke at midnight, stiffened with the damp night air, and terrified with frightful dreams. I would have sought my mother at that moment, for I trembled with fear, but my door was fast. With the daylight my terrors were dissipated, and I became bold in resisting all good impulses. The servant brought my meals, but I did not taste them. I thought the day would never end. Just at twilight I heard a light footstep approach the door. It was my sister, who called me by name.

"What may I tell mother for you?' she asked.
"Nothing," I replied.

"Oh, Alfred! for my sake, for all our sakes, say that you are sorry. She longs to forgive you.'

"I won't be driven to school against my will,' I replied. "But you will go if she wishes it, dear Alfred,' my sister said pleasingly.

666 'No, I won't,' said I; 'and you needn't say another

word about it.'

"Oh, brother, you will kill her, you will kill her! and then you can never have a happy moment.'

"I made no reply to this. My feelings were touched, but I still resisted their influence. My sister called me, but I would not answer. I heard her footsteps slowly retreating, and again I flung myself on the bed, to pass another wretched and fearful night, O God, how wretched! how fearful I did

not know.

"Another footstep, slower and feebler than my sister's, disturbed me. A voice called me by name: it was my mother's. "Alfred, my son, shall I come in? Are you sorry for what you have done?' she asked.

"I cannot tell what influence, operating at that time, made me speak adverse to my feelings. The gentle voice of my mother that thrilled through me melted the ice from my obdurate heart, and I longed to throw myself on her neck, but I did not. No, my boy, I did not. But my words gave the lie to my heart, when I said I was not sorry." I heard her withdraw, I heard her groan. I longed to call her back, but I did not.

"I was awakened from an uneasy slumber by hearing my name called loudly, and my sister stood by my bedside.

"Get up, Alfred! Oh! don't wait a moment! Get up, and come with me. Mother is dying!'

"I thought I was dreaming; but I got up melancholy, and followed my sister. On the bed, pale and cold as marble, lay my mother. She had not undressed. She had thrown herself on the bed to rest; arising to go again to me, she was seized with a palpitation of the heart, and borne senseless to her room.

"I cannot tell you my agony as I looked upon her; my remorse was tenfold more bitter from the thought that she would never know it. I believed myself to be a murderer. I fell on the bed beside her. I could not weep. My heart burned in my bosom; my brain was all on fire. My sister threw her arms around me and wept in silence. Suddenly we saw a slight motion of mother's hand,-her eyes unclosed. She had recovered consciousness but not speech. She looked at me and moved her lips. I could not understand her words. 'Mother! mother!' I shrieked, 'say only that you forgive me.' She could not say it with her lips, but her hands pressed mine. She smiled upon me; and lifting her thin white hands, clasped my own within them, and cast her eyes upward. She moved her lips in prayer, and thus she died. I remained still kneeling beside that dear form, till my gentle sister removed me. She comforted me, for she knew the heavy load of sorrow at my heart; heavier than grief at the loss of a mother, for it was a load of sorrow for sin. The joy of youth had left me for ever.