"Well, to tell you the truth, sir, no," he said; "for we all know that when a man has been buried three weeks that he rarely returns. Even Lazarus was but four days under the earth. In fact, the thought of praying for his return after his spirit had once been yielded up never occurred to me. When David was bereaved of his child by Uriah's wife, he humbled himself whilst the child was yet alive with sackcloth and ashes, but when he heard that the child was dead, he rose and ate bread. What instance is there on record of one returning to life after being buried three weeks?"

"Pray, nevertheless," said I; "the mercy of God is boundless. Who knows but that----"

"Oh, sir, sir," said my father, shaking his head, "you but mock me; it cannot be."

"It is impious of you to say it cannot be. Nothing is impossible with God," said I.

My father smiled faintly. I saw that he regarded me as a kind of well-meaning madman, and after lighting my candle, he showed me the way to my room and shut me in for the night.

My room was some few doors off from my father's. I undressed and went to bed. I had not been in bed more than an hour when I heard my father's footsteps on the stairs. He, too, was going to bed. There was no other guest in the inn then, and all was quiet.

I allowed my father a quarter of an hour to get into bed. Then I opened my chamber door, and listened to hear if he was praying, for he always prayed aloud. I was satisfied that he was praying; what the precise words were I could not quite distinguish, but I fancied I heard my name mentioned once or twice. I returned to my chamber and closed the door. I allowed my father another hour to go to sleep. When the time had expired, I stepped on tip-toe across the passage and turned the handle of his bedroom door noiselessly. I peeped in. All was silent, or rather he was snoring loudly. Leaving the door ajar, I went back cautiously to my chamber to fetch the candle, and then softly and noiselessly I entered the room where my father lay asleep. I had provided myself with a pinch of salt, which I sprinkled in the flame, so as to give a look of ghostly pallor to my face. Then, tapping my father lightly on the shoulder, he started up in bed.

"Good heavens!" he cried, with every hair erect on his head--"Jack! is it you?"

He spoke huskily, and his teeth chattered.

"Hush!" said I, in a 

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