Now he must go in and bid his hostess good-by, and then away to--where? CHAPTER IV As Lyman Gage went up the steps to Miss Marilla’s front porch a sick thrill of cold and weariness passed over his big frame. Every joint and muscle seemed to cry out in protest, and his very vitals seemed sore and racked. The bit of bright evening was over, and he was facing his own gray life again with a future that was void and empty. But the door was not shut. Miss Marilla was hovering anxiously inside with the air of just having retreated from the porch. She gave a little relieved gasp as he entered. “Oh, I was afraid you wouldn’t come back,” she said eagerly. “And I did so want to thank you and tell you how we--how I--yes, I mean _we_, for I know she loved that singing--how very much we have enjoyed it. I shall always thank God that He sent you along just then.” “Well, I certainly have cause to thank you for that wonderful dinner,” he said earnestly, as he might have spoken to a dear relation, “and for all this”--he waved his big hand toward the bright room--“this pleasantness. It was like coming home, and I haven’t any home to come to now.” “Oh! Haven’t you?” said Miss Marilla caressingly. “Oh, _haven’t_ you?” she said again wistfully. “I wonder why I can’t keep you a little while, then. You seem just like my own nephew--as I had hoped he would be--I haven’t seen him in a long time. Where were you going when I stopped you?” The young man lifted heavy eyes that were bloodshot and sore to the turning, and tried to smile. To save his life he couldn’t lie blithely when it seemed so good to be in that warm room. “Why--I was--I don’t know--I guess I just wasn’t going anywhere. To tell you the truth, I was all in, and down on my luck, and as blue as indigo when you met me. I was just tramping anywhere to get away from it.” “You poor boy!” said Miss Marilla, putting out her fine little blue-veined hands and caressing the old khaki sleeve. “Well, then you’re just going to stay with me and get rested. There’s no reason in the world why you shouldn’t.” “No, indeed!” said Lyman Gage, drawing himself up bravely, “I couldn’t think of it. It wouldn’t be right. But I certainly thank you with all my heart for what you have done for me to-night. I really must go at once.” “But where?” she asked pathetically, as if he belonged to her, sliding her hands detainingly down to his big rough ones. “Oh, anywhere, it doesn’t matter!” he said, holding her delicate little old hand in his with a look of sacred respect as if a nice old angel had offered to hold hands with him. “I’m a soldier, you know; and a few storms more or less won’t matter. I’m used to it. Good night.” He clasped her hands a moment, and was about to turn away; but she held his fingers eagerly.