of the sunlight over a winter landscape. He half arose upon his
elbow, and leaned forward as if trying to see the speaker.

"Why, it's Abby, it's Abby, come at last!" he said. "You called me
father, didn't you--and you was crying, and it made your voice sound
kind o' strange and broken like. But you must be Abby come to take me
home. Oh, I thought you'd come at last, Abby. It seems a long, long time
since I came away. And you've never been to see me; no, nor Ben, either.
But you've come at last, Abby, you've come at last. Let me take your
hand, daughter, for I can't see yet. They don't seem to help me here as
you thought they would. And I'm _so hungry_, Abby!--do you think you
could manage to get the old man a little something to eat before we
start home?"

The woman had grown paler and paler as she listened to these words which
the old man poured out in eager haste, like one whose thoughts and
feelings long pent within himself for want of a listener now rushed
forth pell-mell into speech.

"He does not know me," she whispered--"he does not know me. Well, I will
not undeceive him now. He is happy in this delusion,--let him keep it
for the present." Then, aloud, she said:

"You are hungry, father? do you not have food enough here?"

"Oh, I have my share, Abby; I have my share. But my appetite's varying,
and sometimes when they bring it I can't eat it, and then when I want it
most I can't get it. I'm one of many here, and I've been so lonesome,
Abby. But then I knew you'd come for me all in good time. And, Ben--how
is Ben, Abby? does he want to see his old father again? Ah, Ben was a
nice little boy--a nice little boy. But 'Liz'beth wan't no kind of a
mother for such a high-strung lad. And then he hadn't oughter married
that sickly sort of girl that ran off an' left him. Sakes alive! what a
temper she had! It sort of broke Ben down living with her as long as he
did. But he remembers his old father at last, don't he? And he wants to
have me home to die. Ah, Ben has a good heart after all!"

"I must not tell him; I must not," whispered the woman as she listened.
"Bitter to me as his deception is, I must let him remain in it." Then
with a sudden bracing of the nerves, and a visible effort, she said:

"Ben is away from home now, father. He will not be there to meet you,
but you'll not mind that: I shall make you so comfortable; I want you at
home during the holidays."

So he went out from the horror and loneliness an