Only nineteen was my poor boy when he was taken
from me," and my father's eyes moistened as he spoke. "Only nineteen!" I exclaimed. "Was he not strong?" "Strong, sir! I believe you--strong as a lion," said my father. "Dear me!" I said, "it is very strange that his youth and strength did
not resist the malady." "So everyone said, sir," replied my father, "but--but he had been ailing
for some time before." "What was his complaint before he caught this disease?" I asked. "Ah! sir, that's just the point," answered my father. "I sadly fear that
it was an epidemic of a more dangerous sort." "How so?" asked I. "What do you mean?" "Well, sir, my real opinion is now that the young man was too strongly
attached to a maid whom he couldn't marry, and that undermined his
health. Then came the epidemic, which he had not sufficient strength to
shake off." "Ah!" said I, "and why could he not marry her? Was the maid
unrelenting?" "Not that, exactly, sir. Indeed, I believe she was as much in love with
him, but----"

"But what?" "Well, the fact of the matter is, sir, the girl's father and I ain't
friends, and neither of us was willing to give our consent. The girl was
sent off by her father to live at her aunt's, just to get her out of my
son's way. I knew all about this, but I wasn't going to tell the young
man, lest he should take it into his head to run after her, so, thinking
to blunt his passion, I invented the story of her death, saying that she
had been carried off by the epidemic, hoping that after a time, finding
she was no more, that he would cease to think of her. But instead of
that, he grew worse and worse, and I attribute his death to the lie I
told about his sweetheart's decease." "You did very wrong," said I, "not to give your consent." "Well, but, sir, if I _had_ given _mine_, the girl's father would not
have given _his_," replied my father. "If you had been the first to make up the quarrel, I have no doubt that
he would have given his consent," said I. My father seemed stung with this reproach, and took out his handkerchief
to wipe his eyes. "Ah, my poor son! my poor son!" sobbed my father. "What wouldn't I give
to have him back again?" "Would you give your consent to his marriage with the girl he loved if
he could come to life again?" I asked. "Ay, sir, that would I, only too gladly," replied my father, "but what's
the use of talking now that he has gone from me for ever?" "You speak like a man without faith," said I. "Have you no belief in an
after life? Have you no hope of meeting him in Heaven?" "That is the only hope I have left, sir," said my father, "but in the
meantime----"

"Ah!" said I, "you cannot make up your mind to be consoled for his loss
for the few short years that you have to remain upon earth." "Well, sir, it's very hard to bear," said my father. "Have you ever prayed?" I asked. "Yes, sir," said he, "I say my prayers regularly." "But do you say them earnestly?" said I. "Do you believe that if you ask
a thing that you will receive what you ask for? For instance, if you
were to pray for your son to be restored to life, do you believe that he
really _would_ be restored to life?" My father stared in surprise. "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 sepulchral voice; "listen to me. Because you have
prayed fervently, I have risen from my grave to comfort you. Grieve not
for me, father, for I am happy. I have returned to thank you for having
given your consent to my marriage. Molly is now mine in spirit, and I
shall henceforth rest peacefully in my tomb. Farewell." I strode towards the door, with long, silent, majestic strides, and
closed it carefully after me, leaving my father staring after me into
space and speechless with terror. I was a very young man then, and a reckless devil-may-care sort of
fellow, otherwise I should not have attempted such a dangerous practical
joke. The consequences might have been fatal; as it was, my father's
nerves were terribly shaken, and I spoilt all his night's rest. When he
brought up my breakfast the next morning in the parlour he looked pale
and haggard. "What is the matter, good man?" said I, patronisingly, in my usual
feigned voice. "Oh, sir!" said my father, excitedly, "I saw him last night!" "Saw him!" I exclaimed. "Saw whom?" "My son, Jack, sir. Oh, who would have believed it?" "What! and has he returned to life, or was it his spirit?" "Yes, sir, his ghost," said my father, with a look of awe, and then he
began relating to me the whole particulars of his son's spiritual
apparition. "Then you followed my advice, and have been praying?" "That I did, sir, with all my heart and soul," said my father.