will ho not pray for his stubborn and rebellious son! Though one experiment foil, ho tries another, and then
again, reluctant to give ever. Did it never happen to one of you to be such a child, to have outgrown that rebellion and wickedness? Remember the pains taken with you; remember the agony your mother felt; the shame that, bowed your father's head so oft, and brought such bitter tears adown those venerable cheeks. You cannot pay for that agony, that shame, not pay the hearts which burst with both—yet uttering only a prayer for you. Pay it back, then, if you can, to others like yourself, stubborn and rebellious sons.
Have none of you ever been such a father or mother? You know, then, the sad yearnings of heart which tried you. The world condemned you and your wicked child, and said, "Lot the elders stone him with stones. The gallows waiteth for its own! "Not so you! You said: "Nay, now, wait a little. Perchance the boy will mend. Come, I will try again. Crush him not utterly and a father's heart besides!" The more he was wicked, the more assiduous were you for his recovery, for his elevation. You saw that ho would not keep up with the moral march of men; that ho was a barbarian, a savage,—yes, almost a beast amongst men. You saw this; yes, felt it too as none others felt. Yet you could not condemn him wholly and without hope. You saw some good mixed with his evil; some causes for the evil and excuses for it which others were blind to. Because you mourned most you pitied most—all from the abundance of your love. Though even in your highest hour of prayer, the sad conviction came that work or prayer was all in vain—you never gave him over to the world's reproach, but interposed your fortune, character, yes, your own person, to take the blows which the severe and tyrannous world kept laying on. At last, if he would not repent, you hid him away, the best you could, from the mocking sight of other men, but never shut him from your heart; never from remembrance in your deepest prayers. How the whole family suffers for the prodigal till he returns. "When he comes back, you rejoice over one recovered olive-plant more than, over all the trees of your field which no storm has ever bspoke or bowed. How you went forth to meet him; with what joy rejoiced! "For this my son was lost and is found," says
