, after a pilgrimage to every loved spot in the household
shrine, he slipped away unseen and struck out on foot over the fields
for a distant railway station. For two months he lived here and there in
California, while his beard grew and his thoughts devoured him. Then one
evening he stepped somewhat feebly from the train in New York, crawled
into a cab, and drove to No. 127 Mulberry Street. The cabman helped him
up the steps and handed him in the door to a brisk old woman, who must
have been an actress in her day; for she gave a screech at the sight of
him, and threw her arms about him crying out, so that the cabman heard,
"Artie, alanna, back from the dead, back from the dead, acushla
machree." Then the door closed, and Arthur Dillon was alone with his
mother; Arthur Dillon who had run away to California ten years before,
and died there, it was supposed; but he had not died, for behold him
returned to his mother miraculously. She knew him in spite of the
changes, in spite of thin face, wild eyes, and strong beard. The
mother-love is not to be deceived by the disguise of time. So Anne
Dillon hugged her Arthur with a fervor that surprised him, and wept
copious tears; thinking more of the boy that might have come back to her
than of this stranger. He lay in his lonely, unknown grave, and the
caresses meant for him had been bought by another.

RESURRECTION.

CHAPTER VI.

ANOTHER MAN'S SHOES.

As he laid aside his outer garments, Horace felt the joy of the
exhausted sailor, entering port after a dangerous voyage. He was in
another man's shoes; would they fit him? He accepted the new house and
the new mother with scarcely a comment. Mrs. Anne Dillon knew him only
as a respectable young man of wealth, whom misfortune had driven into
hiding. His name and his history she might never learn. So Monsignor had
arranged it. In return for a mother's care and name she was to receive a
handsome income. A slim and well-fashioned woman, dignified, severe of
feature, her light hair and fair complexion took away ten from her fifty
years; a brisk manner and a low voice matched her sharp blue eyes and
calm face; her speech had a slight brogue; fate had ordained that an
Endicott should be Irish in his new environment. As she flew about
getting ready a little supper, he dozed in the rocker, thinking of that
dear mother who had illumined his youth like a vision, beautiful,
refined, ever delightful; then of old Martha, rough,