He set out upon his quest the following morning and had no difficulty in finding the old woman he was seeking. At one of a dozen doors marking as many divisions of a long, low tenement building near the river, he had knocked, and the door had opened into a small, clean kitchen, where a bright fire burned in a tiny stove, and a row of scarlet geraniums in pots ornamented the front window. The woman who admitted him he recognized at once as the mother of the man in that far-away prison, whose last hold-upon love and goodness was the remembrance of the aged, wrinkled face so wonderfully like his own. In a corner behind the door there stood an old-fashioned trundle-bed. As Joe stepped into the room a child, perhaps ten years old, started up from it, exclaiming “That's the man, Granny; the man who put me on his shoulder, when Mariar was cross. Come in! come in, man,” she urged. “Be still, Cynthy,” retorted the grandmother, not unkindly, as she placed a chair for Joe, who was walking over to the little bed from which the child was evidently not able to rise alone. Two frail hands were outstretched to him, two great black eyes were raised to his full of unspoken gratitude. Joe took the soiled letter from its hiding-place and gave it to the woman without a word. She glanced at the scarcely legible characters, and went into an adjoining room, her impassive face working convulsively. “What's the matter with Granny, was she crying? I never seen her cry before,” said Cynthy. “Granny's had heaps o' trouble. I'm all thet's left of ten children and a half-dozen grandchildren. She says I'm the poorest of the lot, too, with the big bone thet's grow'd out on my back; it aches orful nights, and makes my feet so tired and shaky mornin's. Granny's kind o' queer; some days she just sets and looks into the fire fer hours without speakin', and it's so still I kin a'most hear my heart beat; and I think, and think, and never speak, neither, till Granny comes back and leans over me and kisses me; then it's all right ag'in, an' Granny makes a cup o' tea an' a bite o' toast and the sun comes in the winder, and I forget 'bout the pain, an' go out with Mariar, when she'll take me, like I did last night.” The child's white, pinched features flushed feverishly, her solemn, dusky eyes burned like coals. She had been resting her chin in her hands, and gazing up into Joe's face with a fascinated intensity. She fell back wearily upon the pillows as the door opened, and her grandmother returned and put her hand on Joe's shoulder, saying brokenly, “You've been very kind.” The little clock on the shelf over the kitchen table ticked merrily, and the tea-kettle hummed, as if it would drown the ticking, while Joe and Cynthy's grandmother discussed and planned for the future.