There being no delay at Acapulco, and but little at New Orleans, our voyagers were soon aboard one of the palatial steamers that ploughed the waters of the Mississippi in the days when steamboating on the river was in the height of its glory. Floating palaces, with hearts of fire and arteries of steam, were equipped in the most sumptuous style. The cuisine of their tables was never excelled in any land. Trained servants were on duty at every hand in all departments, and such river races as the pen of Mark Twain has made immortal infused an alluring element of danger into the daily life of the adventurous traveller. St. Louis was passed, and Cairo; and the voyage up the Illinois to Peoria was speedily consummated. The brothers struck out afoot for the old home, which they came into sight of at sundown. A light snow covered the ground, and a bitter wind was blowing hard. * * * * * “Down, Rover, down! Don’t you know your master?” exclaimed the returned wanderer, as the great mastiff sprang at him with a low, savage growl, which changed at once to vehement proclamations of welcome as the faithful creature recognized his friend. “Bless the dog! But be quiet! We want to surprise the old folks.” In the cosey sitting-room of the little cottage sat a prematurely aged woman, plying her needle and softly crooning a plaintive lullaby. A couple of tallow candles burned dimly on a little table, and a much-worn work-basket sat at her left. In the opposite corner an old man sat, his head bowed, as if sleeping. An open Bible had fallen from his hand. “There’s but one pair of stockings to mend to-night,” sighed the woman, as she folded her finished work, her thoughts reverting to scenes long vanished. The white-bearded man aroused himself at her words and spoke. “John is forty-three to-night,” he said huskily, his finger pointing to the family record. “God be with him till we meet again!” was the sighing response as the mother struggled to thread her needle by the flickering light. “Mary is a year younger than John; and Joseph came to us two years later than Mary,” said the patriarch, his finger still pointing to the cherished page. “Oh, father!” cried the wife, “do you think I shall ever hold my Joseph in my arms again?” “God knows best,” was the sad reply. A cat purred contentedly at the woman’s feet, and crickets sang upon the hearth. Outside, the wind sighed dolefully. “Wonder what’s the matter with Rover?” said the old man, rising to his feet, after repeated efforts, and hobbling toward the door. “He’s acting strangely to-night.” “Don’t open the door, father,” pleaded the wife. “The whole country is infested with tramps and robbers. We’d better be cautious. I’m sure I saw faces at the window a while ago.” “Rover knows what he’s about, wife. He never speaks like that to an enemy. I will open the door.”