It was not long before they found themselves at the door of the new home. Gerald helped Mr. Nixon out of the wagon, and led the way into the house. All was neat and comfortable, and furnished a very favorable contrast to the dilapidated cabin where Nixon had lived so many years. There was a woolen carpet on the floor of the sitting-room, an eight-day clock on the mantel, three or four pictures on the walls, and a comfortable couch on one side of the room. The old man heaved a sigh of satisfaction. "This is the way I used to live," he said. "It is the way you shall live hereafter," said Gerald. "It makes me feel younger already. What a wonderful boy you are!" Gerald smiled. "Oh, no, I am only an ordinary boy," he replied. "I understand now why John Nugent sent you to me. Are you sure you are only sixteen." "Quite sure." "And I am sixty-six! What a difference!" In truth, Thomas Nixon looked ten years older than he really was. It was partly sickness, and partly want of nourishing food and cheerful companionship. "We will have you looking younger soon," said Gerald, cheerfully. "And, now, don't you think it is almost time for dinner?" "I—I think I could eat something," said the old man, slowly. "It is long since I have had an appetite, but now I almost feel hungry. You—you may get a loaf of bread and some butter at Mr. Loche's store." "Leave that matter in my hands, Mr. Nixon. I suppose you won't mind my spending a little money?" "No, no. Take a gold piece from the box, and buy what you like." Gerald found a small hotel at which many of the miners boarded, and engaged two dinners to be sent over to their new home. When the food arrived he set out the table and properly arranged it. "Now, Mr. Nixon," he said, cheerfully, "let me move up your chair and we will have dinner." It was long since the old man had sat down to a regular meal, and it was as much the lack of nourishing food as any other cause that had weakened him. His faded eyes lighted up, and for the first time in many weeks he felt a craving for food. Gerald took the head of the table. "Now, Mr. Nixon," he said, "let me help you to some roast beef. Now, here is a boiled potato, and some turnips; and there is bread and butter." "It is a feast," said the old man, gleefully. "It is long since I tasted roast beef." "Then you made a mistake in stinting yourself when there was no need of it. Hereafter you must live well." "So I will—so I will; that is, if you stay with me. But I thought I was going to die soon, and it didn't make any difference." "You don't want to die till your time comes. Why, you are not so very old." "I am sixty-six." "And you may live twenty years yet." "I didn't care to live; but now, since you have come, things look different." Both ate heartily, and when the dinner was over, the old man moved back his chair and breathed a sigh of content. "It is the best meal I have tasted for years," he said.