In their kind-hearted simplicity they had evidently planned a sort of family ovation, for as I came out on the piazza, they were all there except Miss Warren, who sat at her piano playing softly; but as Mr. Yocomb rose to greet me she turned toward us, and through the open window could see us and hear all that passed. The old gentleman still bore marks of his shock and the illness that followed, but there was nothing weak or limp in his manner as he grasped my hand and began warmly: "Richard Morton, last night I said thee was welcome; I now say this home is as truly thine as mine. Thee saved mother and the children from--" and here his voice was choked by emotion. Mrs. Yocomb seized my other hand, and I saw that she was "moved" now if ever, for her face was eloquent with kindly, grateful feeling. "Please don't," I said, so sharply as to indicate irritation, for I felt that I could not endure another syllable. Then, slapping Reuben brusquely on the shoulder, I added, "Reuben was quite as helpful as I: thank him. Any tramp from New York would try to do as much as I did, and might have done better. Ah, here is Zillah!" And I saw that the little girl was propped up on pillows just within the parlor window, where she could enjoy the cool evening air without too great exposure. "If she'll give me another kiss we'll call it all square and say no more about it," and I leaned over the window-sill. The child put her arms around my neck and clung to me for a moment. There could have been no better antidote for my mood of irritable protest against my fate than the child's warm and innocent embrace, and for a moment it was balm indeed. "There," I cried, kissing her twice, "now I'm overpaid." Raising my eyes, I met those of Miss Warren as she sat by her piano. "Yes," she said, with a smile, "after that I should think you would be more than content." "I certainly ought to be," I replied, looking at her steadily. "Zillah's very grateful," Miss Warren continued. "She knows that you watched with her till morning." "So did other night-owls, Zillah, and they were quite as useful as I was." She reached up her hand and pulled me down. "Mother said," she began. "You needn't tell a stranger what mother said," and I put my finger on her lips. "Thee's no more of a stranger than Emily Warren," said the little girl reproachfully. "I can't think of thee without thinking of her." I raised my eyes in a quick flash toward the young lady, but she had turned to the piano, and her right hand was evoking a few low chords. "Miss Warren can tell you," I said, laughing, "that when people have been struck by lightning they often don't think straight for a long time to come." "Crooked thinking sometimes happens without so vivid a cause," Miss Warren responded, without looking around. "Zillah's right in thinking that thee can never be a stranger in this home," said Mrs. Yocomb warmly.