“Married! My little girl, married!” His old face puckered up queerly; he did not know whether to laugh or cry. She wrote that she was very happy. After that the burden of every letter was, “Pa, do come and see me.” Sitting by the fire one evening, late in the fall, pa said, “Mandy, I am going to Adairville to-morrow.” “I should like to know if you are possessed, you’ll do no such thing! What do you want to go there for?” “I want to see Thella; it’s a long time since I seen her!” deprecatingly. “Well, you won’t go trapezing after her; she run away, and you’ll not follow her.” “She’s my child, you hadn’t ought to be so hard, Mandy,” quavered the old man. “Well, you’ll not go, I tell you! you ain’t goin’ to spend no money running after that trollope!” answered she. Pa sighed, but said no more; he had submitted to her rule so long that the thought of opposition did not occur to him; his shoulder seemed to bend as if beneath a heavy load; his gray head drooped lower and lower; a heavy tear or two followed the deep furrows down his cheek. The next morning he seemed scarcely able to stir, and though her wrath enveloped him all day he seemed not to mind; he appeared like one in a dream. When chore-time came again, she said sharply, “Ain’t you goin’ to get them cows to-night? you act as though your wits was wool-gatherin’—or like a tarnal fool!” “Mandy, I’ve always did the best I could!” he said quaveringly, as he turned away. “It’s poor enough, the Lord knows,” snapped she. When pa reached the entrance to the lane he stood lost in thought for several minutes—he had forgotten all about the cows—suddenly he straightened up: “I’ve a good mind to do it! I vum, I will!” he laughed outright—a cracked, cackling laugh, that had a pitiful sound; his weak, watery eyes began to glisten; this time instead of whistling once, he whistled twice shrilly. “Daughter, I’m coming; your old pa’s coming!” he cried gleefully. He sat down on the hollow log where he kept his letters; he took them out, handling them over fondly; from the last one received he drew out a bill; he spelled the letter out laboriously: “DEAR PA: Here is a little money to get you a suit of new clothes; and in my next letter I will send you enough for your fare, for, dear pa, I must see you.” He laid the letter on his knee, smoothing it caressingly. “Yes, daughter, so you shall; I couldn’t never wait ’till I got another letter; so I will go just as far as this money’ll carry me and I’ll walk the rest of the way. Lord! What’ll Mandy say?” Poor pa did not know as much about traveling as do some children, so he had very little idea of his undertaking. Two weeks later Thella was one afternoon sitting in her pleasant room. The postman had just passed, which set her to wondering why she did not hear from pa; she ever had the dread before her that his burden would become greater than he could bear, and that she would see him no more. A servant came hurriedly into the room: