The old man was a light-weight. Jerome almost carried him into the bedroom, and laid him on the bed. He fed him with more brandy, and put hot-water bottles around him. Presently he breathed evenly in a sweet sleep. Ann sat by his side, holding his hand, and would not stir, though Jerome besought her to go up-stairs to Elmira's room. "I guess I don't leave him to stray away again," said she. Out in the kitchen, Elmira pressed close to Jerome. "Is it," she whispered in his ear--"is it father?" Jerome nodded. "How do you know?" "I remember." "Are you sure?" "Yes, he's grown old, but I remember." "Where--did he--come from?" "I don't know. We must wait till he wakes up." The brother and sister huddled close together over the fire, and waited. Elmira held Jerome's hand fast in her little cold one. "What's in that little tin trunk?" "Hush; I don't know." "Jerome, mother _walked!_" "Hush; I saw her." It was an hour before they heard a sound from the bedroom. Then Ann's voice rang out clearly, and another, husky and feeble, sounded in response. Jerome and Elmira went into the room, and stood beside the bed. "Here's the children, Abel," said Ann. The face on the pillow looked stranger than before to Jerome. When half unconscious it had worn a certain stern restraint, which coincided with his old memories; now it was full of an innocent pleasantness, like a child's, which puzzled him. The old man began talking eagerly too, and Jerome remembered his father as very slow-spoken, though it might have been the slowness of self-control, not temperament. "How they've grown!" he said, looking at his children and then at Ann. "That's Jerome, and that's Elmira. How I've lotted on this day." He held out a feeble hand; Elmira took it, timidly, then leaned over and kissed him. Jerome took it then, and it seemed to him like a hand from the grave. His doubt passed; he knew that this man was his father. "I hadn't got asleep," Ann said; "I was thinkin' about him. I heard somebody at the front door; I got up and went; I knew it was him." The old man smiled at them all. "I'll tell you where I've been," he said. "It won't take long. I was behindhand in that interest money. I couldn't earn enough to get ahead nohow. I was nothin' but a drag on you all, nothin' but a drag. All of a sudden, that day when I went away, I reasoned of it out. Says I, that mortgage will be foreclosed; my stayin' where I be won't make no difference about that. I ain't doin' anythin' for my family, anyway. I'm wore out tryin', and it's no use. If I go away, I can do more for 'em than if I stay. I can save every cent I earn, till I get enough to pay that mortgage up. I'll get a chance that way to do somethin' for 'em. So I went." The utter inconsequence of his father's reasoning struck Jerome like a chill. "His mind isn't just right," he thought. "Where did you go, Abel?" asked his mother. "To West Linfield." "What!" cried Jerome. "That's only twenty miles away."