"My father!" Andy had dropped into a chair. The sentence had deprived him of strength to stand. He knew his mother never wasted words, or made rash statements. His father had come back! And Andy did not know that his father was alive. In fact, knew nothing of him, and that struck him for the first time with stunning force. Janie's back was straight and firm. "Yes, your father. I kept it all from you. I meant to tell you some day, Andy, but time passed and you asked no questions, and I--I thought everything was past and gone forever. But he has come back." "Where is he?" asked Andy. "At home. He has been hurt, and is feverish and ill. He was doing sentinel duty for--for the British, and he received a terrible blow from some one in a cave. I cannot tell what is best to do, Andy, and I must look to you for help." Somehow Andy had gotten to his feet, and staggered across the little room to his mother. Almost roughly he seized her hand, while the awful truth unfolded itself from the dense darkness of the past. "Say that again!" he commanded. Janie looked at him in amazement. "Say what!" she asked. "That about the blow, and--and the cave!" Janie repeated it, wondering why that detail should so interest Andy. "You see," she continued, not heeding his horrified look, "I married your father when I was very young. I look older than I be, lad. He brought me nothing but trouble. He was above me in station. He belonged to his majesty's regiment stationed here, and when the regiment was recalled he went--back! Little he cared for the girl he left or the baby that bore his name! I managed, and neighbors helped me to forget, and--and I could not tell you Andy. I hoped I never would be obliged to." "Go on!" Andy still held his mother's hand, but with infinite gentleness now. Tears stood in Janie's eyes, and the human need for sympathy met an answering thrill in the heart of the son. "He--he saw you yesterday at the pass, Andy, when they made you guide them after the troops, and your face frightened him. He says you look so like his mother, that it is just terrible. She has recently died, and her memory and the thought that his son might be alive and here, gave him a bad turn. He asked your name, and as I kept my own name after he deserted me, he guessed the truth, and as soon as he could break away from the others he came to me--and--that is all, Andy. But what shall I do?" Andy tried to think. Tried to bring events into orderly line and coherence, but the more he tried the more detached he felt, and as if the whole matter was one with which he had nothing to do. "I was so young, Andy, lad, only seventeen!" When had Janie ever pleaded before? "Yes," murmured Andy. "I am nearly seventeen now. Seventeen years are long--sometimes. But, of course, you were very young."