this was apparent, and he hesitated about advancing again to the
contest, while there was so strong a doubt as to the issue.

For a long time Mr. Howland moved about the room, while his wife
continued to sit, listening, at the window.

"Come, Esther," said the former, at length, in a voice greatly
changed from its tone when he last spoke. "You had better retire. It
is useless to remain there. Besides, you are in danger of taking
cold. The air is damp and chilly."

"You can retire--I shall sleep none, to-night," was answered to
this. And then Mrs. Howland looked again from the window.
"Where--where can he have gone?" she said aloud, though speaking to
herself. "My poor, unhappy boy!"

Mr. Howland made no answer to this. He had no satisfying
intelligence to offer, nor any words of comfort that it would be of
avail to speak.

Thus the greater portion of that long remembered night was
passed--Mrs. Howland sitting at the window, vainly waiting and
watching for her son, and Mr. Howland walking the floor of the room,
his mind given up to troubled and rebuking thoughts. In his hardness
and self-will he had justified himself up to this in his course of
conduct pursued toward his children; but he was in doubt now. A
question as to whether he had been right or not had come into his
mind, and disturbed him to the very centre.