You are glad to have your ne'er-do-well back again, I hope, mother ?" Glad! A widowed mother, lonely and old, glad to have an only son back! Mrs.Walraven had tightened those withered arms about him closer and closer, with only that one shrill cry: "Oh, Carl--my son! my son!" "All right, mother! And now, if there's anything in this house to eat, I'll eat it, because I've been fasting since yesterday, and haven't a stiver between me and eternity.

By George! this isn't such a bad harbor for a shipwrecked mariner to cast anchor in.

I've been over the world, mother, from Dan to--What's-her-name! I've been rich and I've been poor; I've been loved and I've been hated; I've had my fling at everything good and bad under the shining sun, and I come home from it all, subscribing to the doctrine: 'There's nothing new and nothing true.' And it don't signify; it's empty as egg-shells, the whole of it." That was the story of the prodigal son.

Mrs.Walraven asked no questions.

She was a wise old woman; she took her son and was thankful.
It had happened late in October, this sudden arrival, and now, late in November, the fatted calf was killed, and Mrs.Walraven's dear five hundred friends bidden to the feast.
And they came.