n body! What joy would be Temple's when he got his
arms around this young fellow once more!

The wanderer reached for his cap and pushed back his chair. For an
instant he stood gazing into the smouldering coals as if he hated to
leave their warmth, his brow clouded, his shoulders drawn back. He had
all the information he wanted--all he had come in search of, although
it was not exactly what he wished or what he had expected:--his uncle
ruined and an exile; his father half blind and Kate's wedding expected
any week. That was enough at least for one night.

He stepped forward and grasped Pawson's hand, his well-knit, alert body
in contrast to the loosely jointed, long-legged, young attorney.

"I must thank you, Mr. Pawson," he said in his old outspoken, hearty way
"for your frankness, and I must also apologize for my apparent rudeness
when I first entered your door; but, as I told you, I was so astounded
and angry at what I saw that I hardly knew what I was doing. And now
one thing more before I take my leave: if Mr. Temple does not want his
present retreat known--and I gather from the mysterious way in which you
have spoken that he does not--let me tell you that I do not want mine
known either. Please do not say to any one that you have seen me, or
answer any questions--not for a time, at least. Good-night!"

With the closing of the front door behind him the exile came to a
standstill on the top step and looked about him. Across the park--beyond
the trees, close sheltered under the wide protecting roof, lay Kate. All
the weary miles out and back had this picture been fixed in his mind.
She was doubtless asleep as it was now past eleven o'clock: he would
know by the lights. But even the sight of the roof that sheltered her
would, in itself, be a comfort. It had been many long years since he had
breathed the same air with her; slept under the same stars; walked where
her feet had trodden. For some seconds he stood undecided. Should he
return to the Sailors' House where he had left his few belongings and
banish all thoughts of her from his mind now that his worst fears had
been confirmed? or should he yield to the strain on his heart-strings?
If she were asleep the whole house would be dark; if she were at some
neighbor's and Mammy Henny was sitting up for her, the windows in the
bedroom would be dark and the hall lamp still burning--he had watched it
so often before and knew the signs.

Drawing the collar of his rough