ksgiving dinner. It consisted of the hen aforesaid, cut in pieces
and boiled--looking very queer, too--served in the kettle in which the
operation had been performed. The table was at one end of the bench,
the table service two jackknives and two iron spoons--absolutely
nothing else.

The elder sat on the bench, the younger drew up a keg that had held
powder, and the dinner was about to begin.

But that hen was destined never to be eaten, for just at that moment
the door was pushed open in the rude way of the country, a box set
down on the floor, and a rough voice announced:

"A box for Mr. Jack Jones."

Jack started up.

"For me, there must be a mistake! Nobody knows--" He stopped, for he
had not mentioned that his name was assumed.

"Likely not!" said the man, with a knowing look, "but folks has a
mighty queer way of findin' out," and he shut the door and left.

Jack stood staring at the box as if he had lost his wits. It could not
be from home, for no one knew where he went when he stole out of the
house one night six months ago, and ran away to seek his fortune. Not
a line had he ever written--not even when very ill, as he had been;
not even when without a roof to cover his head, as he had been more
than once; not even when he had not eaten for two days, as also, alas,
had been his experience.

He had deliberately run away, because--how trivial it looked to him
now, and how childish seemed his conduct--because he thought his
father too hard on him; would not allow him enough liberty; wanted to
dictate to this man of sixteen; he intended to show him that he could
get on alone.

Poor Jack, the only comfort he had been able to extract from his hard
lot these many months of wandering, of work, of suffering such as he
had never dreamed of--his only comfort was that his tender mother
didn't know, his only sister would no more be worried by his grumbling
and complaints, and his father would be convinced now that he wasn't a
baby. Small comfort, too, to balance the hardships that had fallen to
his lot since the money he had drawn from the savings bank--his little
all--was used up.

"Why don't you open it?" The gruff but not unkind voice of his
roommate, whom he called Tom, aroused him. "Maybe there's something in
it better'n sage hen," trying to raise a smile.

But no smile followed. Mechanically Jack sought the tools to open it,
and in a few moments the cover was off.

It _was_ from home! On the very top wa