My father came in with the big Bible under his arm, as was his custom on Sunday nights, drew a chair to the table, rang for candles, and with Allister by his side and me seated opposite to him, began to find a place from which to read to us.

To my yet stronger conviction, he began and read through without a word of remark the parable of the Prodigal Son.

When he came to the father's delight at having him back, the robe, and the shoes, and the ring, I could not repress my tears.

"If I could only go back," I thought, "and set it all right! but then I've never gone away." It was a foolish thought, instantly followed by a longing impulse to tell my father all about it.

How could it be that I had not thought of this before?
I had been waiting all this time for my sin to find me out; why should I not frustrate my sin, and find my father first?
As soon as he had done reading, and before he had opened his mouth to make any remark, I crept round the table to his side, and whispered in his ear,-- "Papa, I want to speak to you." "Very well, Ranald," he said, more solemnly, I thought, than usual; "come up to the study." [Illustration] He rose and led the way, and I followed.