the convict's departure, that he should write to his mother as soon as

he could obtain permission, and that the letter should be addressed to

me. The father had positively refused to see his son from the moment

of his apprehension; and it was a matter of indifference to him

whether he lived or died. Many years passed over without any

intelligence of him; and when more than half his term of

transportation had expired, and I had received no letter, I concluded

him to be dead, as, indeed, I almost hoped he might be.

'Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up the

country on his arrival at the settlement; and to this circumstance,

perhaps, may be attributed the fact, that though several letters were

despatched, none of them ever reached my hands. He remained in the

same place during the whole fourteen years. At the expiration of the

term, steadily adhering to his old resolution and the pledge he gave

his mother, he made his way back to England amidst innumerable

difficulties, and returned, on foot, to his native place.

'On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds

set foot in the village he had left with shame and disgrace seventeen

years before. His nearest way lay through the churchyard. The man's

heart swelled as he crossed the stile. The tall old elms, through whose

branches the declining sun cast here and there a rich ray of light

upon the shady part, awakened the associations of his earliest days.

He pictured himself as he was then, clinging to his mother's hand,

and walking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to

look up into her pale face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with

tears as she gazed upon his features - tears which fell hot upon his

forehead as she stooped to kiss him, and made him weep too,

although he little knew then what bitter tears hers were. He thought

how often he had run merrily down that path with some childish

playfellow, looking back, ever and again, to catch his mother's smile,

or hear her gentle voice; and then a veil seemed lifted from his

memory, and words of kindness unrequited, and warnings despised,

and promises broken, thronged upon his recollection till his heart

failed him, and he could bear it no longer. 'He entered the church. The

evening service was concluded and the congregation had dispersed,

but it was not yet closed. His steps echoed through the low building

with a hollow sound, and he almost feared to be alone, it was so still

and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was changed. The place

seemed smaller than it used to be; but there were the old monuments

on which he had gazed with childish awe a thousand times; the little

pulpit with its faded cushion; the Communion table before which he

had so often repeated the Commandments he had reverenced as a

child, and forgotten as a man. He approached the old seat; it looked

cold and desolate. The cushion had been removed, and the Bible was

not there. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer seat, or possibly

she had grown infirm and could not reach the church alone. He dared

The Pickwick Papers