After their supper at the hotel they went up-stairs. Roger Oakley had been given a room next his son's. It was the same room General Cornish had occupied when he was in Antioch. “Would you like to put away your things now?” asked Dan, as he placed his father's bundle, which he had carried up-town from the office, on the bed. “I'll do that by and by. There ain't much there--just a few little things I've managed to keep, or that have been given me.” Dan pushed two chairs before an open window that overlooked the square. His father had taken a huge blackened meerschaum from its case and was carefully filling it from a leather pouch. “You don't mind if I light my pipe?” he inquired. “Not a bit. I've one in my pocket, but it's not nearly as fine as yours.” “Our warden gave it to me one Christmas, and I've smoked it ever since. He was a very good man, Dannie. It's the old warden I'm speaking of, not Kenyon, the new one, though he's a good man, too.” Dan wondered where he had heard the name of Kenyon before; then he remembered--it was at the Emorys'. “Try some of my tobacco, Dannie,” passing the pouch. For a time the two men sat in silence, blowing clouds of white smoke out into the night. Under the trees, just bursting into leaf, the street-lamps flickered in a long, dim perspective, and now and then a stray word floated up to them, coming from a group of idlers on the corner below the window. Roger Oakley hitched his chair nearer his son's, and rested a heavy hand on his knee. “I like it here,” he said. “Do you? I am glad.” “What will be the chances of my finding work? You know I'm a cabinet-maker by trade.” “There's no need of your working; so don't worry about that.” “But I must work, Dannie. I ain't used to sitting still and doing nothing.” “Well,” said Oakley, willing to humor him, “there are the car shops.” “Can you get me in?” “Oh yes, when you are ready to start. I'll have McClintock, the master mechanic, find something in your line for you to do.” “I'll need to get a kit of tools.” “I guess McClintock can arrange that, too. I'll see him about it when you are ready.” “Then that's settled. I'll begin in the morning,” with quiet determination. “But don't you want to look around first?” “I'll have my Sundays for that.” And Dan saw that there was no use in arguing the point with him. He was bent on having his own way. The old convict filled his lungs with a deep, free breath. “Yes, I'm going to like it. I always did like a small town, anyhow. Tell me about yourself, Dannie. How do you happen to be here?” Dan roused himself. “I don't know. It's chance, I suppose. After mother's death--” “Twenty years ago last March,” breaking in upon him, softly; then, nodding at the starlit heavens, “She's up yonder now, watching us. Nothing's hidden or secret. It's all plain to her.” “Do you really think that, father?” “I know it, Dannie.” And his tone was one of settled conviction.