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XX.

The Return of the Prodigal Son.

HOUGH intent upon pleasing the emperor, Cineas still visited occasionally the Christian meetings, sometimes seeing here the great apostle, but never seeking any closer communication with him than that which he might have as a general auditor. This may have been either from the feeling that he could learn nothing, or, on the other hand, that he might hear too much and be convinced by one who was not a philosopher. Whatever the cause may have been, however, he continued to hold aloof from the one who could have done more than any other to show him the way to that Truth which he sought.

It happened once, at one of these meetings, that he was startled at seeing a well-known face. It belonged to one whom he had not seen for years, and now this one appeared before him as a leader in the Christian assembly.

It was Philo of Crete.

Very much changed had he become. When Cineas saw him last he was a young man, but now his hair seemed turned prematurely gray. His old expression had passed from his face. Formerly he carried in his countenance that which bore witness to the remorse within his heart, but now all that had departed, and the pale, serene face which appeared before Cineas had no expression save one of peace.

He had found this then at last, the peace for which he longed,

and here among these Christians. This fact opened before Cineas thoughts which he had not known before. The master had failed, but Philo had sat at the feet of a greater Master.

After the meeting was over, Cineas went up to him. Philo had recognized him also, and eagerly embraced him. For some time they looked in silence at one another.

"Have you been long in Rome?" said Cineas, at last. "I only arrived here yesterday."

Then another pause.

Philo was the first to speak,—

"You see that I have changed."

"Yes," said Cineas; "you are an old man before your time."

"I have had a greater and a better change than that.”

"You have found, then, that which you wished?" asked Cineas, with anxious sympathy.

"Yes, noble Cineas," said Philo, with deep solemnity, "I have found peace. I have learned a wisdom greater than that of Socrates. I have heard One who said, 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' I have come to him and he has given rest."

Philo spoke half to himself, like one soliloquising. Suddenly he looked earnestly at Cineas, and in a tremulous voice said,— Cineas, you know my story. I seek over the world for

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her."

He paused. Cineas bowed his head. He well knew to whom Philo alluded.

"I have never found her," continued. Philo in mournful tones; no, never so much as a trace of her. I try to work for my Lord, but my work is only half-hearted, and will be so till I find her, till I know the worst. And I will travel all over

the world till I die, but I will seek her."

Philo turned away and buried his face in both his hands.

"O Philo!" cried Cineas, seizing his arm in a convulsive

grasp, "you have come to the end of your search!"

Philo turned, trembling with agitation, and regarded Cineas with an awful look.

"You would not dare to speak slightingly!"

"She is here in Rome," said Cineas.

Philo fell upon his knees, and bowing his head, and clasping his hands, he remained motionless, but his heart poured out all its love and gratitude to Him who had thus answered the prayers, and the longings, and the search of the weary years. Then he rose, and clutching the arm of Cineas, he said, in a scarce audible whisper,—

"Take me to her."

And the two hurried away.

Philo said not a word as he went along.

He did not even

ask Cineas how he knew that this one to whom he was leading him was the right person. In his profound faith in God, he took this at once as an answer to prayer, even as though Cineas had come all the way from Greece for the especial purpose of leading him to her.

He spoke not a word, but the tight grasp, and the nervous trembling of his arm, showed his emotion. He was overwhelmed by the suddenness of this blessed news, and in the multitude of his thoughts he could not speak.

Cineas, on the other hand, said nothing, but thought how he might best have the news broken to the nurse. He knew her feeble state, and her nervous weakness. A great shock, whether of joy or grief, might be too much for her. This was his dread. He could think of no way, and therefore determined to commit the task of preparation to Helena.

At length they reached the house, and then Cineas spoke for the first time since they left, and told Philo his plan. He took his friend up to a room where he might remain unmolested for a time, and then went to his sister.

Helena agreed to do what she could, but she felt very doubtful about her success. She feared for the effect of this sudden

joy. The nurse had indeed recovered, but her strength at best was frail. A sudden excitement would invariably make her heart beat so violently that she could scarcely breathe. The grief of years, and many sleepless nights, and bitter agony endured in those lonely vigils, had all brought her to this.

And now, when Helena sought the nurse, doubting her power to break the news fittingly, and trembling for the result, she showed disturbance in her face, and when the nurse saw her enter the room she looked at her in surprise. As for Helena, she could think of no roundabout way by which the news could be skilfully unfolded. Not knowing any good way, she concluded to say whatever came uppermost.

So, in as calm a tone as she could use, she said: “Cineas has heard something to-day which he wished me to tell you”

No sooner had Helena said this than she repented, and stopping short, she looked at the nurse, and felt frightened at the effect of these simple words.

For the nurse leaned back in her seat, and stared fixedly at Helena with a strange, wild expression, and her heart beat with fierce, fast bounds, so that her whole frame was shaken.

"He saw a man in the city," said Helena, with a trembling voice, and her eyes filled with tears, "and this man told him something which he wished you to know. But, oh, my dearest, why do you tremble so? Be calm! Can you not come to yourself?"

And Helena caught the nurse in her arms, and kissed her pale, white face, and implored her to be calm.

"Ah, dearest," said the nurse, in a faint voice, “I am not able to control my feelings. I know well what you have to tell about. There is only one kind of message which Cineas would send to me. It is of him. But tell it. Don't fear for

me. Whether I am calm or not is no matter. I can bear it.

You came to tell me of his death. He is gone, and I will not see him again in this life.”

"No," said Helena.

"No! Is it not of him?"

"Yes."

"And what else have you to tell? Oh, I pray you, do not keep me in suspense."

"He is not dead."

"He-is-not-dead?" repeated the nurse,. rousing herself, and looking at Helena with a strange, supplicating glance. "Not dead? And you came to tell me this? And this man that you speak of, where is he? Who is he?"

"You can see him, and ask him yourself. But, oh, be calm." But the nurse trembled more than ever.

"Oh, has he been spared? Is he alive? And where? And who can bring him to his mother? Where can I go to see him before I die? Not much longer can I live. Did he send a message? Did he ever mention my name? Is he near me, or far away? Is he too far to come to me before I die? Oh, speak, and do not look at me so strangely. What do you mean by those tears? If he is not dead, why do you weep?"

"Because-because," said Helena, “I fear for you. You tremble so. You cannot bear the shock."

"The shock! What shock? To hear that my boy lives? Ah, what have you to say? What terrible thing remains? Have I not borne the worst-the worst? Can anything worse remain ?"

And a deep terror showed itself in the face of the nurse, and she sat erect and rigid, with clasped hands, fearing to hear of some new thing.

Oh, my dearest. There is nothing like that. I fear that you will be killed, not by terror, but by joy."

"Joy !"

The nurse clutched Helena's arm, and tried to speak, Lut could not.