Farmer Grey, as he sat in his large house by himself, often felt sad and
lonely. He had lost his wife when young; she had had no children, and
he had not married again. His nephew, James, was his only near
relative; and he found, whenever he thought of the young man, that, in
spite of his faults, he loved him more than he had supposed. For a long
time he had not heard from him; and, as several bloody battles had of
late been fought in India, he began to fear that he might have been
among the killed, and that no one had known his address to write and
tell him. Still, Farmer Grey was not a man to sit by himself and brood
over his sorrow. He went about as usual, doing all the good he could,
not only in his own village but in the neighbourhood; and he never heard
of a poor person falling sick or getting into trouble, whom he did not
visit and relieve as far as he was able. He thought, too, more of poor
Mary Page than of himself. He knew how much she loved James, and that
she would spend the best days of her youth waiting for him to come back,
as he was sure that she would never marry anybody else. Meantime,
though Mary was often sad, still she believed that James was alive, and
that he would some day come back to her. She often blamed herself for
thinking so much of him, while the fate of her unhappy brother was so
uncertain. It was surely through God's kindness that she never learned
what his fate had been.
Mary's home, in many ways, was far happier than it had ever before been.
She soon saw the change in her father, and it did her heart good.
Instead of sitting gloomily by himself when he came in from work, or, as
he used, reading some bad paper opposed to religion and government, his
great pleasure was to listen to her reading the Bible, or to talk with
her on religious subjects.
Whilst Mary Page was, one evening, sitting at the window of the parlour
of the new mill-house, she saw a dark-bearded soldier-like man looking
up at the house, as if surprised at its appearance. The stranger passed
through the wicket; Mary could sit quiet no longer. She rose and opened
the front door: "James, James, is it you?" she cried out, as if yet
fearful that she might be mistaken.
"Yes, Mary, I am James, but not the James who went away in disgrace a
few years back," he said, when she had led him into the parlour. "But
tell me, do you forgive me? Does my uncle forgive me?"
"Oh, yes; yes--all is forgiven, long, long ago. It will give your kind
uncle a new life, to see you back safe and well."
Together, in a few minutes, they set off to the farm. Mary was right.
No father could give a more hearty welcome to a prodigal son than good
Farmer Grey gave to his nephew James.
James had gained rank and marks of distinction, and he had a pension for
wounds, and a considerable share of prize money. His rank and honour
showed that he had been firm in resisting the many temptations to which
he must have been exposed, for no soldiers escape them. He got his
discharge, but entered a militia regiment that he might be able to
defend his country, should she ever be attacked by foreign foes. He and
Mary married; and no more happy and prosperous couple were to be found
in or near Hillbrook. They were so, because they were "diligent in
business, fearing the Lord."