“What d'ye reckon I keer fur enny jestice's cheer when I hev got ye agin ter set alongside o' me by the fire?” he exclaimed, his cracked old voice shrill with triumphant gladness. He pushed her into her rocking-chair in the chimney-corner, and laughed again with the supreme pleasure of the moment, although she had leaned her head against the logs of the wall, and was sobbing aloud with the contending emotions that tore her heart. “Didn't ye ever want ter kem afore, Eveliny?” he demanded. “I hev been a-pinin' fur a glimge o' ye.” He was in his own place now, his hands trembling as they lay on the arms of his chair; a pathetic reproach was in his voice. “Though old folks oughtn't ter expec' too much o' young ones, ez be all tuk up naterally with tharse'fs,” he added, bravely. He would not let his past lonely griefs mar the bright present. “Old folks air mos'ly cumber-ers--mos'ly cumberers o' the yearth, ennyhow.” Her weeping had ceased; she was looking at him with dismayed surprise in her eyes, still lustrous with unshed tears. “Why, dad I sent ye a hundred messages ef I mought kem. I tole Abs'lom ter tell Joe Boyd--bein' as ye liked Joe--I wanted ter see ye.” She leaned forward and looked up at him with frowning intensity. “They never gin ye that word?” He laughed aloud in sorry scorn. “We can't teach our chil'n nuthin',” he philosophized. “They hev got ter hurt tharse'fs with all the thorns an' the stings o' the yearth. Our sperience with the sharp things an' bitter ones don't do them no sarvice. Naw, leetle darter--naw! Ye mought ez well gin a message o' kindness ter a wolf, an' expec' him ter kerry it ter some lonesome, helpless thing a-wounded by the way-side, ez gin it ter a Kittredge.” “I never will speak ter one o' 'em agin ez long ez I live,” she cried, with a fresh gust of tears. “Waal,” exclaimed the old man, reassuringly, and chirping high, “hyar we all be agin, jes' the same ez we war afore. Don't cry, Eveliny; it's jes' the same.”