The actual home-coming was simple and undramatic. Wint sent his trunk out during the day after his talk with his father. In the late afternoon of that day, he happened to drop in at the Post Office for the late mail, and met his father there. They greeted each other casually; and Wint asked: “On your way home?” “I have to stop at the bakery.” “I’ll go along,” said Wint. And he did, while people stared with all their eyes. Old Mrs. Mueller, the comfortable little woman who owned the bakery, and who was always associated in Wint’s mind with the delicious fragrance of newly baked bread, lifted both hands at sight of them together, then dropped her hands abruptly and wiped them on her apron and served them without a word. Before the door closed behind them, they heard her, behind the screen in the rear of the shop, volubly telling some one the news. Wint and his father walked home without speaking once upon the way. They were both acutely embarrassed and uncomfortable. It was a relief to them both when they got to the house and Mrs. Chase met them in the hall. Chase dropped his hand on his son’s shoulder--the involuntary touch, like a caress, brought the tears to Wint’s eyes--and he said: “Here’s Wint, mother.” So Wint took his mother in his arms, and she hugged him, hard. “I knew you’d c-c-c-come home, Wint,” she told him, through her sobs. “I was telling Mrs. Hullis, only the other day, that I’d--that I was just sure you’d come home some--” “I’ve come, mother,” said Wint. “I knew you’d come, too. I told father there wasn’t anything in you that would--I told him you’d be sorry, that you’d come and tell him so. Your father’s a good man, Wint. He’s tried to--” Chase broke in. People who wished to say anything to her always had to break in on Mrs. Chase. He said: “Is supper ready, mother? Wint’s hungry, and so am I.” “Yes, yes,” she said. “It’s all ready. Hetty’s made two big pies, Wint. Apples, with cinnamon in them. Thick, the way you like them. Some of our apples, from the big Sheep’s Nose tree in the back yard. They’ve kept wonderful this winter. We haven’t lost hardly any; and they’re as juicy--” “Lead me to ’em,” said Wint cheerfully. “Is Hetty a good cook?” “She’s fine,” his mother assured him. “Hetty’s a fine girl. I never had a harder worker. She don’t seem right happy, sometimes; but she does her work, and that’s all a body has a right to ask. She--” Hetty herself came to the dining-room door, then, and told them that supper was ready. Wint said: “Hello, Hetty,” and shook hands with her. She said: