His feelings, so
long restrained, now burst out, and, sinking back upon his seat, he
enveloped himself in his cloak, and burst into tears.
Hour after hour the stage rolled on. Passengers entered and left; but
the boy (perhaps I ought rather to call him the young man) was almost
insensible to every thing that passed. He sat, in sadness and in
silence, in the corner of the stage, thinking of the loved home he had
left. Memory ran back through all the years of his childhood,
lingering here and there, with pain, upon an act of disobedience, and
recalling an occasional word of unkindness. All his life seemed to be
passing in review before him, from the first years of his conscious
existence, to the hour of his departure from his home. Then would the
parting words of his father ring in his ears. He had always heard the
morning and evening prayer. He had always witnessed the power of
religion exemplified in all the duties of life. And the undoubted
sincerity of a father's language, confirmed as it had been by years
of corresponding practice, produced an impression upon his mind too
powerful ever to be effaced--"My son, you may forget father and
mother, you may forget brothers and sisters, but, oh, do not forget
your God." The words rung in his ears. They entered his heart. Again
and again his thoughts ran back through the years he had already
passed, and the reviving recollections brought fresh floods of tears.
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