emain standing. Looking tearfully upward, the father holds Oswald's
hand and says nothing. Both fix their eyes upon a new oil portrait.
Sinking into a chair, Oswald whispers:

"Where is mother?"

To this comes only:

"Gone home!"

For an hour these stricken ones sit with clasped palms, neither crying
nor indulging in spoken grief. Then, as if by mutual impulse, both talk
of other things.

Oswald speaks of past troubles and present deliverances. He is now free
from all suspicion, and can face the world without fear. Alice Webster
is alive, and the Laniers are in custody.

The rector tells of his continued ministerial work and lonesome life.

That evening neither referred to their great loss. Upon the following
day Oswald's father told about the mother's troubles after the son's
flight, and related some of the incidents of her last sickness. Neither
parent ever confided to any human being Oswald's plight, nor had either
the least information about his fate.

"Mother talked and dreamed of her absent son. In sleep she sang cradle
lullabys and gently reproved her 'own little Ossie.' For hours she would
sit looking out of the window, expecting your return.

"Without apparent cause came that fatal attack. After a few days the
physician said there was no hope. His diagnosis revealed no malignant
disease, but indicated a total collapse of vital forces. For hours
mother would lay at the window, clasping your boyhood miniature, often
turning it toward the light of the sun or stars. Just before going into
her last long sleep mother looked out into the rayless dark, and
whispered:

"'Percy, dear, see that star! It is coming this way. Now I will go and
find Ossie!'

"She has been dead two years."

Each bearing flowers, father and son visit the grave. Wife and mother is
not there, but these floral tokens are sacred to loving, pathetic
memories. Her ministries know, but feel not earthly limitations.

Oswald stands long with bowed, uncovered head. Neither speaks. There are
no tears. Reverend Percy Langdon passes his arm through that of his son
and slowly leads homeward.

Upon the next day Oswald starts for Northfield. He promises soon to
return and talk over plans with his father.

Upon Oswald's spirits has settled deep pensiveness, so solemn as to
check all buoyant exuberance, for the time restraining joyous tremor at
thought of those waiting Northfield greetings.

There are upon the faces of that early-risen house