Soon Nettie came with the parents of the child. How thankful they were to find her not seriously hurt. The doctor said there was no bone broken, only bruises, and she would be well soon. Many were the presents lavished upon Mrs. Spaulding and Nettie. The gentleman was bruised very badly. The first question he asked the bystanders was, “Who is that lady who took the little one in the cottage.” “It is Mrs. Spaulding, a widowed lady,” answered several people. “How is the child? I tried to save the little one from harm, but I fear I have not.” A young man came up to where the people were huddled together, and seeing the stranger sitting on the sidewalk he said, “What is the matter here?” “A little girl came near getting killed by a runaway horse, and this gentleman was badly hurt trying to save her,” answered one. The young man came to him and extending his hand said, “Sir, please let me help you up. You can bear on my arm, and I will help you to a place where you can rest.” The stranger was gazing earnestly at the young man, as he said, “Kind sir, pray what is your name? Do not think me impertinent; you resemble a person I know.” “Paul Burton, of Pine Island,” modestly answered the young man. “Pray, sir, what is your age?” “Twenty-four my last birthday.” “My son, my son, my babe I cruelly deserted years ago!” Paul looked at the stranger critically as he said, “Is this my father who left me in my faithful old servant’s arms, and cruelly deserted my mother and left her broken hearted?” “My son, I have done wrong, I admit, but my wife told me to go; she did not wish ever to see me again. She burned a picture I had, and we quarreled like many other hot headed people have done, and she told me to go, and I did. I was very angry then, as my English temper had risen; but, my son, I am going home to ask forgiveness, and be reconciled to her,” said the father, while his tears were falling silently. “My mother is dead: she died last spring. She gave me this to give to you if I should ever see you,” handing him the picture, before refused him. With trembling hand he took it. As his son gave him the letter in which Paul’s mother said, “Tell him I died loving him and our child—he who never saw me out of temper,” the father buried his head in his hands and wept like an infant.