Really, the drama had grown very impressive; it was a mystery, to say the least; and so it must remain forever, for when Frank, infected at last by Mrs. Sallie's faith in tragedy, opened the door and offered his tardy services, the wagon was driven rapidly away without reply. They never learned what it had all been; and I think that if one actually honors mysteries, it is best not to look into them. How much finer, after all, if you have such a thing as this happen before your door at midnight, not to throw any light upon it! Then your probable tipsy man cannot be proved other than a tragical presence, which you can match with any inscrutable creation of fiction; and if you should ever come to write a romance, as one is very liable to do in this age, there is your unknown, a figure of strange and fearful interest, made to your hand, and capable of being used, in or out of the body, with a very gloomy effect. While our friends yet trembled with this sensation, quick steps ascended to their door, and then followed a sharp, anxious tug at the bell. “Ah!” cried Frank, prophetically, “here's the father of our adopted son;” and he opened the door. The gentleman who appeared there could scarcely frame the question to which Frank replied so cheerfully: “O yes; he's here, and snug in bed, and fast asleep. Come up-stairs and look at him. Better let him be till morning, and then come after him,” he added, as they looked down a moment on the little sleeper. “O no, I couldn't,” said the father, _con expressione_; and then he told how he had heard of this child's whereabouts at the Port station, and had hurried to get him, and how his mother did not know he was found yet, and was almost wild about him. They had no idea how he had got lost, and his own blind story was the only tale of his adventure that ever became known. By this time his father had got the child partly awake, and the two men were dressing him in men's clumsy fashion; and finally they gave it up, and rolled him in a shawl. The father lifted the slight burden, and two small arms fell about his neck. The weary child slept again. “How has he behaved?” asked the father. “Like a little hero,” said Frank, “but he's been a cormorant for cookies. I think it right to tell you, in case he shouldn't be very brilliant to-morrow, that he wouldn't eat a bit of anything else.” The father said he was the life of their house; and Frank said he knew how that was,--that he had a life of the house of his own; and then the father thanked him very simply and touchingly, and with the decent New England self-restraint, which is doubtless so much better than any sort of effusion. “Say good-night to the gentleman, Freddy,” he said at the door; and Freddy with closed eyes murmured a good-night from far within the land of dreams, and then was borne away to the house out of which the life had wandered with his little feet.