The Prodigal Daughter
Character building stories by Timothy Shay Arthur (June 6, 1809 – March 6, 1885) Timothy Shay Arthur has done more for American literature than any one other person. His name will be remembered and loved, when those of his critics will be forgotten, together with their productions. I doubt if there is another man in the country who has done such a vast, such a measureless amount of good with the pen. There is probably not another American writer who has produced so much, as Arthur." "Arthur was the most popular and widely read author of his times!""All of the books from the pen of Timothy Shay Arthur are most interesting, and of a high moral and useful tone. To read any of them, must improve the character and the conduct. Mr. Arthur's works are all wholesome; they inculcate morality and purify the feelings — by tastefully illustrating the beauties of virtue, and the iniquities of vice. "His works will be read with interest by all the admirers of wholesome novels, and will be seized on with avidity by the thousands of readers who prefer Mr. Arthur's useful and instructive sketches — to the flimsy novels which overstock the market. To Mr. Arthur the public are indebted for a species of composition that while it affords delight, conveys at the same time, many moral and practical lessons for life." (Editor, 1855)
Character building stories by Timothy Shay Arthur (June 6, 1809 – March 6, 1885) Timothy Shay Arthur has done more for American literature than any one other person. His name will be remembered and loved, when those of his critics will be forgotten, together with their productions. I doubt if there is another man in the country who has done such a vast, such a measureless amount of good with the pen. There is probably not another American writer who has produced so much, as Arthur."
"Arthur was the most popular and widely read author of his times!""All of the books from the pen of Timothy Shay Arthur are most interesting, and of a high moral and useful tone. To read any of them, must improve the character and the conduct. Mr. Arthur's works are all wholesome; they inculcate morality and purify the feelings — by tastefully illustrating the beauties of virtue, and the iniquities of vice.
"His works will be read with interest by all the admirers of wholesome novels, and will be seized on with avidity by the thousands of readers who prefer Mr. Arthur's useful and instructive sketches — to the flimsy novels which overstock the market. To Mr. Arthur the public are indebted for a species of composition that while it affords delight, conveys at the same time, many moral and practical lessons for life." (Editor, 1855)
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One morning, three weeks after the shadow of death had fallen darkly over<br />
them, Mary, who was able to sit up for a few hours at a time, was leaning<br />
back upon the pillows that a careful hand had arranged around her, with her<br />
eyes closed. Her father and mother held, each, a hand, and were gazing upon<br />
her face. <strong>The</strong>y spoke not, for she seemed sleeping. But no, she slept not; for<br />
her eyelids quivered, and seemed tightly pressed together. In a little while,<br />
a tear stole quietly forth, and rested upon her cheek. <strong>The</strong> hearts of both father<br />
and mother were touched. That drop they knew was for the lost ones she had<br />
loved so tenderly. <strong>The</strong>ir own eyes grew dim.<br />
"Mother," said the invalid, in a little while, before closing her eyes, which<br />
were swimming in tears, "I had a strange dream last night. May I tell it to<br />
you?"<br />
"Yes, my love. Let us hear your dream."<br />
"I dreamed," said Mary, her voice trembling with suppressed feeling, while<br />
tears came slowly from her eyes and rolled over her face, "that I was well<br />
enough to walk out. It was a calm summer evening, and the air was sweet<br />
with the odor of May blossoms. I wandered out, I thought not where, but I<br />
soon came into a little enclosure, where were four newly made graves. I knew<br />
them to be the graves of my sister and brothers. I sat down beside them and<br />
cried bitterly. I wished that I had died also, that I might still be with them. I<br />
had been weeping there, it seemed to me, a long time, when I heard my name<br />
called, and turning around, saw Ellen standing near me, all dressed in white<br />
garments — her face radiant of heavenly beauty. She held by the hand a pale,<br />
wasted, sad-looking creature, in tattered garments and with a lank body. It<br />
was Alice! My own, long lost sister Alice!<br />
"'<strong>The</strong>re is one left to you,' Ellen said. 'Do not forget the living, while<br />
mourning over the dead!' All vanished from my eyes, and I awoke."<br />
A deep groan, half repressed, escaped Mr. Melleville, as he arose and left the<br />
room, in an agitated manner. For more than three hours he paced the floor of<br />
his own chamber, his mind in an agony. He was suddenly self-convicted of<br />
the most unnatural and cruel conduct towards his cast-off child, whose<br />
condition, if living, he had too good reasons for believing, was in all respects<br />
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