After a few hesitating words of welcome, the men folks sat down and Tom began telling of those things that had befallen him in the year and a half past. He spun his yarn pretty steadily, though every now and then he would stop in his speech, for as he told of the finding of the money on the island, his words brought before him all of those hopes that had borne him up through the toil; then a rush of feeling would sweep over him as he thought how all this had been taken out of his life, and he would stop in his talking to steady himself. He said nothing of this to the others, but I think that they all felt the sorrow that was lying at the bottom of his heart. Then they sat down to supper. Tom’s father tried to turn the talk more cheerfully. “We haven’t told thee the great news, Thomas,” said he. “What is it?” said Tom. “Thee sees, thy coming upset us all, so that we didn’t think of it. Thee tell him, Susan.” Susan looked down, and the color rose in her face. “What is the news?” said Tom, again. “Well,” said his father, “as Susan don’t seem inclined to tell thee, I suppose I must do it myself. How would thee like Will Gaines for a brother?” Tom did not speak for a moment, then he said, a little unsteadily; “I—I wish thee joy, Susan; thee’s chosen a good man for thy husband, and I believe he’ll make thee happy.” Then they were silent for a while. “When is thee going to be married?” said Tom again, at last. “The time’s not fixed yet; some time in the eleventh month, I guess.” After a while Tom’s father spoke. “What’s thee going to do now, Thomas?” said he. “I don’t know exactly,” said Tom, huskily; “I’m going to Philadelphia again on the first stage to-morrow.” His mother looked earnestly at him, and the tears rose in her eyes, and rolled slowly down her cheeks; then she pushed back her chair, and left the table hurriedly. Presently they all arose and went into the sitting-room. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, for, though the days were warm, the evenings were cool and frosty. The four men sat down around the fire, smoking and talking together in a rambling fashion. Their words were constrained, for each felt upon his mind the parting that was to come to-morrow. So the time passed until the old clock in the corner struck nine. Then Tom’s father arose in the way that Tom knew so well, and lit his candle with one of the paper lamplighters on the mantle shelf. Before he left the room he came to Tom and laid his hand on his shoulder. “Thy burthen’s heavy, Thomas,” said he; “bear it like a man.” “I’ll try,” said Tom. “I wish that we could have thee longer with us, but thee’s doing right to go; thee mustn’t stay in the neighborhood just now.” He stood for a moment as though he were about to say something more; he did not speak again, however, but presently turned and left the room.