Bass met his father at the railway station in the morning. He looked very pale, and seemed to have suffered a great deal. His cheeks were slightly sunken and his bony profile appeared rather gaunt. His hands were heavily bandaged, and altogether he presented such a picture of distress that many stopped to look at him on the way home from the station. “By chops,” he said to Bass, “that was a burn I got. I thought once I couldn’t stand the pain any longer. Such pain I had! Such pain! By chops! I will never forget it.” He related just how the accident had occurred, and said that he did not know whether he would ever be able to use his hands again. The thumb on his right hand and the first two fingers on the left had been burned to the bone. The latter had been amputated at the first joint—the thumb he might save, but his hands would be in danger of being stiff. “By chops!” he added, “just at the time when I needed the money most. Too bad! Too bad!” When they reached the house, and Mrs. Gerhardt opened the door, the old mill-worker, conscious of her voiceless sympathy, began to cry. Mrs. Gerhardt sobbed also. Even Bass lost control of himself for a moment or two, but quickly recovered. The other children wept, until Bass called a halt on all of them. “Don’t cry now,” he said cheeringly. “What’s the use of crying? It isn’t so bad as all that. You’ll be all right again. We can get along.” Bass’s words had a soothing effect, temporarily, and, now that her husband was home, Mrs. Gerhardt recovered her composure. Though his hands were bandaged, the mere fact that he could walk and was not otherwise injured was some consolation. He might recover the use of his hands and be able to undertake light work again. Anyway, they would hope for the best. When Jennie came home that night she wanted to run to her father and lay the treasury of her services and affection at his feet, but she trembled lest he might be as cold to her as formerly. Gerhardt, too, was troubled. Never had he completely recovered from the shame which his daughter had brought upon him. Although he wanted to be kindly, his feelings were so tangled that he hardly knew what to say or do. “Papa,” said Jennie, approaching him timidly. Gerhardt looked confused and tried to say something natural, but it was unavailing. The thought of his helplessness, the knowledge of her sorrow and of his own responsiveness to her affection—it was all too much for him; he broke down again and cried helplessly. “Forgive me, papa,” she pleaded, “I’m so sorry. Oh, I’m so sorry.” He did not attempt to look at her, but in the swirl of feeling that their meeting created he thought that he could forgive, and he did. “I have prayed,” he said brokenly. “It is all right.”