crowd, many turned
to look at his sad burden, though few heeded him. Much was said; but
the general voice of the crowd was this: 'Ah! he is gone, is he? Well!
a born rascal! It must be a great relief to his brother!' A conclusion
which was about as wise, and about as near the truth, as the world's
conclusions generally are. As for Melchior, he neither saw the figure
nor heard the crowd, for he had fallen senseless among the cushions.

"When he came to his senses, he found himself lying still upon his
face; and so bitter was his loneliness and grief, that he lay still
and did not move. He was astonished, however, by the (as it seemed to
him) unusual silence. The noise of the carriages had been deafening,
and now there was not a sound. Was he deaf? or had the crowd gone? He
opened his eyes. Was he blind? or had the night come? He sat right up,
and shook himself, and looked again. The crowd _was_ gone; so, for
matter of that, was the coach; and so was Godfather Time. He had not
been lying among cushions, but among pillows; he was not in any
vehicle of any kind, but in bed. The room was dark, and very still;
but through the 'barracks' window, which had no blind, he saw the
winter sun pushing through the mist, like a red hot cannon-ball
hanging in the frosty trees; and in the yard outside, the cocks were
crowing.

"There was no longer any doubt that he was safe in his old home; but
where were his brothers and sisters? With a beating heart he crept to
the other end of the bed; and there lay the prodigal, but with no
haggard cheeks or sunken eyes, no grey locks or miserable rags, but a
rosy yellow-haired urchin fast asleep, with his head upon his arm. 'I
took his pillow,' muttered Melchior, self-reproachfully.

"A few minutes later, young Hop-o'-my-Thumb (whom Melchior dared not
lose sight of for fear he should melt away) seated comfortably on his
brother's back, and wrapped up in a blanket, was making a tour of the
'barracks.'

"'It's an awful lark,' said he, shivering with a mixture of cold and
delight.

"If not exactly a _lark_, it was a very happy tour to Melchior, as,
hope gradually changing into certainty, he recognized his brothers in
one shapeless lump after the other in the little beds. There they all
were, sleeping peacefully in a happy home, from the embryo hero to the
embryo philosopher, who lay with the invariable book upon his pillow,
and his hair looking (as it always did) as if he lived in a high wind.