"Mother," he said, "tell me--you must tell me--is this man father?"

"Don't you know him? Don't you know your own father? Look at him."

Ann threw back her head and pointed at the old worn face on her breast.

Jerome stared at it. "Where--did he come--from?" he panted.

"I don't know. He's come. Oh, Abel, Abel, you've come home!"

"Give me some of that brandy, quick," Jerome called to Elmira, who stood trembling, holding the bottle and gla.s.s. He poured out some brandy, and, with a teaspoon, fed the old man, a few drops at a time.

Presently he raised his head feebly, but it sank back. He tried to speak. "Don't try to talk," said Jerome; "wait till you're rested.

Mother, let him alone now; sit down there. Elmira, you must try and help me a little."

"If you've got to be helped, I'll help," cried Ann, fiercely.

With that his mother, who had not walked since he could remember, ran into the bedroom, and began spreading the sheets smooth and shaking the pillows.

The old man was a light-weight. Jerome almost carried him into the bedroom, and laid him on the bed. He fed him with more brandy, and put hot-water bottles around him. Presently he breathed evenly in a sweet sleep. Ann sat by his side, holding his hand, and would not stir, though Jerome besought her to go up-stairs to Elmira's room.

"I guess I don't leave him to stray away again," said she.

Out in the kitchen, Elmira pressed close to Jerome. "Is it," she whispered in his ear--"is it father?"

Jerome nodded.

"How do you know?"

"I remember."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, he's grown old, but I remember."

"Where--did he--come from?"

"I don't know. We must wait till he wakes up."

The brother and sister huddled close together over the fire, and waited. Elmira held Jerome's hand fast in her little cold one.

"What's in that little tin trunk?"

"Hush; I don't know."

"Jerome, mother _walked!_"

"Hush; I saw her."

It was an hour before they heard a sound from the bedroom. Then Ann's voice rang out clearly, and another, husky and feeble, sounded in response. Jerome and Elmira went into the room, and stood beside the bed.

"Here's the children, Abel," said Ann.

The face on the pillow looked stranger than before to Jerome. When half unconscious it had worn a certain stern restraint, which coincided with his old memories; now it was full of an innocent pleasantness, like a child's, which puzzled him. The old man began talking eagerly too, and Jerome remembered his father as very slow-spoken, though it might have been the slowness of self-control, not temperament.

"How they've grown!" he said, looking at his children and then at Ann. "That's Jerome, and that's Elmira. How I've lotted on this day."

He held out a feeble hand; Elmira took it, timidly, then leaned over and kissed him. Jerome took it then, and it seemed to him like a hand from the grave. His doubt pa.s.sed; he knew that this man was his father.

"I hadn't got asleep," Ann said; "I was thinkin' about him. I heard somebody at the front door; I got up and went; I knew it was him."

The old man smiled at them all. "I'll tell you where I've been," he said. "It won't take long. I was behindhand in that interest money. I couldn't earn enough to get ahead nohow. I was nothin' but a drag on you all, nothin' but a drag. All of a sudden, that day when I went away, I reasoned of it out. Says I, that mortgage will be foreclosed; my stayin' where I be won't make no difference about that. I ain't doin' anythin' for my family, anyway. I'm wore out tryin', and it's no use. If I go away, I can do more for 'em than if I stay. I can save every cent I earn, till I get enough to pay that mortgage up.

I'll get a chance that way to do somethin' for 'em. So I went."

The utter inconsequence of his father's reasoning struck Jerome like a chill. "His mind isn't just right," he thought.

"Where did you go, Abel?" asked his mother.

"To West Linfield."

"What!" cried Jerome. "That's only twenty miles away."

Abel Edwards laughed with child-like cunning. "I know it," he said.

"I went to work on Jabez Summers's farm there. It's way up the hill-road; n.o.body ever came there that knew me. I took another name, too--called myself Ephraim Green. I've saved up fifteen hundred dollars. It's there in that little tin chist. I bought that of Summers for a shillin', to keep my money in. There's five hundred in gold, an' the rest in bank-bills. You needn't worry now, mother.

We'll pay that mortgage up to-morrow."

"The mortgage is all paid. We've paid it, Abel," cried Ann.

"Paid! The mortgage ain't paid!"

"Yes, we've paid it. We all earnt money an' paid it."

"Then we can keep the money," said the old man, happily. "We can keep it, mother; I thought it would go kinder hard partin' with it. I've worked so hard to save it. I 'ain't had many clothes, an' I 'ain't ever been to meetin' lately, my coat got so ragged."

Elmira was crying.

"How did you get here to-night, father?" Jerome asked, huskily.

"I walked from West Linfield; started yesterday afternoon. I come as far as Westbrook, an' it began to snow. I put up at Hayes's Tavern."

"At Hayes's Tavern, with all that money!" exclaimed Elmira.

"Why, ain't they honest there?" asked the old man, quickly.

"Yes, father, they're all right, I guess. Go on."

"They seemed real honest," said his father. "I told 'em all about it, and they acted real interested. Mis' Hayes she fried me some slapjacks for supper. I had a good room, with a man who was goin' to Boston this mornin'. He started afore light; he was gone when I woke up. I stayed there till afternoon, then I started out. I got a lift as far as the Corners, then I walked a spell and went into a house, where they give me some supper, and give me another lift as far as the Stone Hill Meetin'-house. I've been trampin' since. It was ruther hard, on account of the roads bein' some drifted, but it's stopped snowin'."

"Why didn't you come on the coach, Abel, when you had all that money?" asked Ann, pitifully. "I wonder it hadn't killed you."

"Do you suppose I was goin' to spend that money for coach hire? You dun'no' how awful hard it come, mother," replied the old man. He closed his eyes as he spoke; he was weary almost to death.

"He'll go to sleep again if you don't talk, mother," Jerome whispered.