He enclosed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and left it lying on the library table. Then he put on his cap and coat, took his suit-case, and went out into the sunlight of the winter morning. At the entrance gate he turned and looked back at Bannerhall, the wide lawn, the noble trees, the big brick house with its hospitable porch, the window of his own room, facing the street. Something rose in his throat and choked him a little, but his eyes were dry as he turned away. He knew the road to Cobb's Corners very well indeed. He had made frequent visits to his mother there in the summer time. For, notwithstanding his forbidding attitude, Colonel Butler recognized the instinct that drew mother and child together, and never sought to deny it proper expression. But it was hard traveling on the road to-day, especially with a burden to carry, and Pen was glad when Henry Cobb, a neighbor of Grandpa Walker, came along with horse and sleigh and invited him to ride. It was just after noon when he reached his grandfather's house, and the members of the family were at dinner. They looked up in astonishment when he entered. "Why, Pen!" exclaimed his mother, "whatever brings you here to-day?" "I've come to stay with you awhile, mother," he replied, "if grandpa 'll take me in." "Of course grandpa 'll take you in." And then, as mothers will, especially surprised mothers, she fell on his neck and kissed him, and smiled through her tears. "Well, I dunno," said Grandpa Walker, facetiously, balancing a good-sized morsel of food carefully on the blade of his knife, "that depen's on wuther ye're willin' to take pot-luck with us or not." "I'm willing to take anything with you," replied Pen, "if you'll give me a home till I can shift for myself." He went around the table and kissed his grandmother who had, for years, been partially paralyzed, shook hands with his Uncle Joseph and Aunt Miranda, and greeted their little brood of offspring cheerfully. "What's happened to ye, anyhow?" asked Grandpa Walker when the greetings were over and a place had been prepared for Pen at the table. "Dick Butler kick ye out; did he?" "Not exactly," was the reply. "But he told me I couldn't stay there unless I did a certain thing, and I didn't do it--I couldn't do it--and so I came away." "Jes' so. That's Dick Butler to a T. Ef ye don't give him his own way in everything he aint no furder use for ye. Well, eat your dinner now, an' tell us about it later." So Pen ate his dinner. He was hungry, and, for the time being at least, the echo of that awful hiss was not ringing in his ears. But they would not let him finish eating until he had told them, in detail, the cause of his coming. He made the story as brief as possible, neither seeking to excuse himself nor to lay the blame on others.