Not recognizing his condition, his father was surprised and even annoyed, as well as startled: he was in no mood for such a visit. He felt also strangely afraid of the child, but could not have told why. Wretched about one son, he was dismayed at the nocturnal visit of the other. The cause was of course his wrong condition of mind. Lack of truth and its harmony in ourselves alone can make us miserable. There is a cure for everything when that is cured. No ill in our neighbours, if we be right in ourselves, will ever seem hopeless to us. But while we stand wrapped in our own selfishness, our neighbour may well seem incurable, for not only is there nothing in us to help their redemption, but there is that in ourselves, and cherished in us, which cannot be forgiven, but must be utterly destroyed.

There was an unnatural look, at the same time pitiful and lovely, about the boy as the father sat staring in gathering dread. He had nearly imagined him an angel of some doom.

Suddenly the child stretched out his hands to him and came close to his knee. Remembering how once before, when a tiny child, he had gone into a kind of fit when awakened suddenly, and anxious to avoid anything of the kind again, the father took the child softly in his arms, lifted him to his knees, and held him. An expression of supreme delight came over the boy’s face—a look of absolute contentment mingled with hope. He put his thin hands together as if saying his prayers, but lifted his look to that of his father. How could his earthly father know that in his dreams, the boy thought he was sitting in the lap of his heavenly Father? And now his lips began to move, and a murmur came from them, which grew into barely audible words. He was indeed praying to his father, but a father closer to him even than the one upon whose knees he sat.