"I told the truth--I said I was keeping something back," thought Jot. "I said I wasn't sick, didn't I? And Old Till's got to go home. The doctor told me the sooner the better." But it was a distinct sacrifice to Jot's pride to be "taken home to mother." He bore it remarkably well because of the love and anxiety in his sturdy little heart. He would do a good deal for Old Till. They returned by a more direct route than they had come. On the way, they discussed their adventures. Jot counted them up on his fingers. "Hand-organs, old churches, little old man's hay--pshaw! that wasn't an adventure!" Jot blushed hotly, as if caught in some misdeed. "No, skip that," Old Tilly said quietly. "That just happened. Begin over again." "Hand-organs, old churches (two adventures there, you know), picnics, slow races--" "Skip that!" cried Old Tilly. "No, sir! Slow races, burning barns, arteries--" "Oh, I say! I'll do the counting up myself! Besides, you left out the very first adventure, didn't you?" "The very first one?" "Yes, of course--losing all our money before we started!" "Quits!" cried Jot, laughing. He did not appear sick at all. All the way home he watched Old Tilly with almost professional care. And Old Tilly, unknown to Jot, watched him. "Say, Jot," he said that night, when they had gone upstairs to their own beds once more, "don't you feel a little better?" His face was white and tired, and he nestled in the pillows gratefully. It was good to be at home. "Don't you feel a good deal better?" "Me?" asked innocent Jot. "I feel jolly! Never felt--oh, er--I mean-- that is--" "You're a rascal!" laughed Old Tilly, comfortably. "That's what you mean. Think I didn't surmise a thing or two? Well, honest, I didn't, at first. But on the way home I found out what you were up to. You looked altogether too healthy!" There was a moment's silence, then Jot spoke meekly. "I felt sort of mean, but I couldn't help it, honest. And I told the truth, now, didn't I? I was going to own up to-morrow." He went away into the next room and crept into bed beside Kent. "Jot! Jot, I say!" called Old Tilly, presently. "Hope you don't think I'm mad. I don't mind. I--I like it." There was an indistinct mumble of relief from Jot's quarter, followed by another silence. Then again Old Tilly's contented voice crept through the dark. "Say, Jot, you asleep?" "Yes, you?" "Sound! It feels mighty good to be home, doesn't it?" "Prime!" "Good-night, old chap!" "Same here!" Then silence, unbroken. By and by Mother Eddy stole upstairs to her boys.