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1852.] for the Southern Literary Gazette. THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN. A TALE OF THE NEW YEAR. BY. ALICE B. NEAL. CHAPTER 111. The snow-clouds had changed to a hit ter driving rain, that drenched her before she had gone a square, but she tried not to mind this, and went on bravely to wards the shops, bending down her head to keep the cold rain from her face. The gutters were swollen, and every step increased the damp, clinging moisture of her dress, that impeded her first rapid movements. But bodily discomfort was nothing to the mental anguish she had known; and she was ministering to his comfort, as she had done for many years, poor woman, since he was first laid in her arms indeed, a little helpless infant. The shops were nearly all closed, and she had to go further than she intended. The inclement night gave all a holiday, even the poorest tradesmen was content to give up the hope of gain for an evening by the fireside. They did not offer to send home parcels for a customer so poorly clad, and burdened by her pur chases, still for him, she set out on her return. Oh, how dreary, the wet plash ing streets, scarcely a dog unsheltered, and no human faces, save now and then some poor creature rolling home in the madness of intoxication, or the policemen in their heavy coats pacing a solitary round. One of them spoke to her—a kind-hearted man, who carried the heavy parcel so far as his walk extended. He was young, and he, too, had a mother. Then she was alone again, and her heart sank down, as light after light died out, a long the narrow street, and the storm drove coldly in her face. She could scarcely lift her feet from the tide that poured along the pavements from the broken spouts of the dilapidated dwel bngs. She reached the house at last, so weary, and so cold, but with the thought that he would be there to welcome her. She opened the door softly, thinking to steal in behind him, but he was not there. The door of the inner room stood so she put down her bundle, think- Ul B flight be weary, and had retired t,JI the night. She warmed her hands b’ 1 an instant by the smouldering fire, SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE. thinking to herself it was a long time since she had watched over his sleep, and that she would go and arrange his pil lows comfortaoly, and once more offer her thanksgivings by his bed side. The room was empty. His bed was untouched, and she stood a moment irre solutely trying to think what it could mean. But he w r ould be hack soon, he did not know that she had gone out for him, and he might have thought of pur chases, for she had placed half of all her little store beside him, as she departed, that he need not for an instant feel pen niless or dependent. So she sat down by the fire, at first with pleasant dreams of their future, and listening every mo ment for his tread on the stairs; but he did not come, and she rose and went to the window, looking out for him in the darkness. She stood there more than an hour, watching the hoary sheets of rain fall into the pools that had collected in the streets, by the dim light of the street lamp on the corner, or the broader blaze that streamed from a noisy drinking shop near by. The houses dark with the soak ing rain, their slant roofs, and high chim neys, seemed spectral in their outline, and now and then the wind came with a wild rush, and moan, that made the lights flicker, and the face of the dark pools to glimmer, while the windows shook with a dismal, lonely sound. She could not bear to think of him exposed to such a tem pest, forgetful that she had braved it herself much more thinly clad, —and a feeling of utter loneliness seemed to weigh her down, as moments, and at last hours, had gone by. “This is foolish,” she said to herself at length, turning from the dreariness with out, “and he will be so chilled —1 have let the fire burn down.” So she stooped to mend it, and as the flame shot up brightly, she saw a letter lying on the mantel-piece, directed in his hand. She felt all that would be there, be fore she had read a word; it was a long time before she could make out the let ter closely, for her hand shook and trem bled, and her sight seemed leaving her. “I know I am going to pain you mother by what I have decided on. Perhaps you will think me selfish, and perhaps I am ; but I cannot go back with you to Milford, where every thing would remind me of what I once was, and even the old familiar trees, would seem to taunt me with very shame. I cannot meet the people who would pity me, at best, and who have so long pitied you for being the mother of a felon. Yes, mother, you know they call me so, and half the world ever will think that I am. You know, and she believes, I am not guilty ; but it is your love that gives the faith. Yet I am guilty ; —how much so, I never realized until this morning, when I saw how you were bowed and changed. Your loving face would be a perpetual reproach to me, for it was I who worsted your sub stance, and have so nearly brought you to the grave. Sometimes it seems as if God would never forgive me. 1 can never forgive myself. “Then I could not meet Lucy with this brand upon my forehead. She could not help scorning me —but tell her that she has been the angel of my darkness too, and that she now beckons me on in my course, though I shall never see her face again, or yours either mother, until I am once more a man ; if I fail to work out my contrition, you will never hear from me again. If I succeed, through your love, and your prayeis, through God's grace , mother , then your son will be all that he should have been years ago. Ho not blame me for leaving you now —it is bet ter than if you saw me rusting out in despondency and inactivity, for what could Ido there 1 Let me go mother— dearest, best mother—with your bles sing.” And afterwards he laid written, with a blotted, unsteady hand—“do not look for me, it will be useless. I take what you have left me, or 1 should starve —by morning I shall be miles away, and you must go home. Promise me to go at once , mother .” Festivals that are marked by house hold gatherings, have a sadness measur ing all their joy— “ When none remain Os those who made us happy then, But leave us Jonely now.” The white ashes gather more thickly around a lonely hearth—the shadows that rise and fall, as the flames flicker in the twilight, have a gloomy strangeness, when the children that once danced in the ruddy glow, shout no longer at their fantastic outlines. Whether they are watching the bright fire light in pleasant 2 13