tent of the nomad; but never, through all, had the yearning for home
been quenched within him.

"Home!" How the word recalls long-lost memories! The mother's gentle
smile, the father's loving word, as when, in childhood's happy hours,
we sought the beloved shelter at evening, and betook ourselves to
innocent slumbers; and, although the child grows to be the gray-haired
man, yet the sweet memories of peace and love never fade from his
heart. What changes life brings to us! Thirty years ago this worn,
weary traveller emigrated to the New World. Then he was young,
courageous, filled with all the bright hopes which a new life spread
out before him. What happiness he had known since then; what sorrow he
had passed through; and ah, what guilt and remorse he had borne!

And now he was back again--the tall, erect form so bowed down. Was it
sorrow, guilt, or exhaustion from the journey? The once sunny locks
were white as the snow on the mountains; in the large blue eyes alone
there were still some signs of his former self remaining. "Here is the
dear old place at last!" he murmured to himself, and his bosom heaved
with suppressed emotion. The longer he gazed, the more difficult he
found it to control his feelings, until finally he gave way, and wept
like a child.

Meanwhile the brilliant hues of sunset had faded away, and with the
approaching shadows of night the wind rose and played around the
stranger's hoary head.

"It must be about nine o'clock now, the hour for evening prayer, and
everything will go on just as in the old days, for there is nothing to
create a change here. I will go in, and ask if my child yet lives; and