as-collectors.

There was no better housekeeper in town than Mrs. Louden, nor a
thriftier, but hers was one of the few houses in Canaan, that evening,
which showed bright lights in the front rooms while the family were at
supper. It was proof of the agitation caused by the arrival of Eugene
that she forgot to turn out the gas in her parlor, and in the chamber
she called a library, on her way to the evening meal.

That might not have been thought a cheerful feast for Joe Louden. The
fatted calf was upon the board, but it had not been provided for the
prodigal, who, in this case, was the brother that stayed at home: the
fete rewarded the good brother, who had been in strange lands, and the
good one had found much honor in his wanderings, as he carelessly let
it appear. Mrs. Louden brightened inexpressibly whenever Eugene spoke
of himself, and consequently she glowed most of the time. Her
husband--a heavy, melancholy, silent man with a grizzled beard and no
mustache--lowered at Joe throughout the meal, but appeared to take a
strange comfort in his step-son's elegance and polish. Eugene wore new
evening clothes and was lustrous to eye and ear.

Joe escaped as soon as he could, though not before the count of his
later sins had been set before Eugene in detail, in mass, and in all of
their depth, breadth, and thickness. His father spoke but once, after
nodding heavily to confirm all points of Mrs. Louden's recital.

"You better use any influence you've got with your brother," he said to
Eugene, "to make him come to time. I can't do anything with him. If
he gets in trouble, he needn't come to me! I'll never help him again.
I'm TIRED of it!"

Eugene glanced twinklingly at the outcast. "I didn't know he was such
a roarer as all that!" he said, lightly, not taking Joe as of enough
consequence to be treated as a sinner.

This encouraged Mrs. Louden to pathos upon the subject of her shame
before other women when Joe happened to be mentioned, and the supper
was finished with the topic. Joe slipped away through the kitchen,
sneakingly, and climbed the back fence. In the alley he lit a cheap
cigarette, and thrusting his hands into his pockets and shivering
violently--for he had no overcoat,--walked away singing to himself, "A
Spanish cavalier stood in his retreat," his teeth affording an
appropriate though involuntary castanet accompaniment.

His movements throughout the earlier part of that evening are of
uncertai