“I'll show them!” again muttered Tommy, through his teeth. And that was exactly how Tommy came back to his starting-point. He would place the two thousand shares of stock! He would be all business. And yet he regretted that all he had said in his telegram to his father was, “Will arrive in New York to-morrow on business.” But he was glad he had signed it as a loving son would sign it, “Tommy”! When he arrived he felt that he had been absent from New York so long that he really was no longer a part of the life of the town. He had a sense almost of provincialism. He did not quite belong. He did not thrill, as he had expected, at the familiar sights and the typical noises and the characteristic odors. The New-Yorkers he saw were unmistakably New-Yorkers, but they were utter strangers to him. It was an old Daytonian who rang the bell of his house. But Maggie, who opened the door, also opened her mouth at the sight of him and kept it open. And it was not a Daytonian who shouted, delightedly: “Hello, Margarita! How be you?” He was so glad to see her in the house where he was bom, so full of the joy of home-coming, that Dayton utterly vanished from the map of his soul. “Where is he?” he asked her. “Up-stairs in the lib'ry,” answered Maggie, quite proudly. Then, as by an afterthought, she said, very calmly, “Ye're lookin' well.” “So are you!” he said, and gave her a hug. “How's your steady?” It was the old, old joke. But she whispered unsmilingly in reply, “He's waitin' fer ye in th' lib'ry.” Tommy ran up the stairs three steps at a time. He was going to empty himself of his love and the oceans of his youth upon his father. Mr. Leigh was standing beside the table on which were the family Bible, the ivory paper-cutter, and the silver-framed photograph of Tommy's mother. The photograph was not in the center, as usual, but near the edge of the table; and it was not facing the old man, but the door through which Tommy must enter. “Hello, dad!” cried Tommy. Mr. Leigh held his left hand behind his back, where Tommy could not see that it was clenched so tightly that the knuckles showed cream-white, like bare bones. The right hand he extended toward Tommy. “How do you do, Thomas?” said Mr. Leigh, quietly. His face was impassive, but his eyes were very bright. A little older, he seemed to Tommy. Not grayer or more wrinkled or feebler, Simply older, as though it came from something within, Tommy shook his father's hand vehemently. He held it tightly while he answered: “If I felt any better I'd make my will, knowing it couldn't last. And you are pretty well yourself?” “Yes,” said Mr. Leigh, simply. Then: “I am very glad to see you, my son. Do you wish to spruce up before dinner? I'll wait.”