sides,
the facts spoke for themselves. I told the simple, plain
story--nothing more.

Abel Fletcher listened at first in silence. As I proceeded he felt
about for his hat, put it on, and drew its broad brim close down over
his eyes. Not even when I told him of the flour we had promised in his
name, the giving of which would, as we had calculated, cost him
considerable loss, did he utter a word or move a muscle.

John at length asked him if he were satisfied.

"Quite satisfied."

But, having said this, he sat so long, his hands locked together on his
knees, and his hat drawn down, hiding all the face except the rigid
mouth and chin--sat so long, so motionless, that we became uneasy.

John spoke to him gently, almost as a son would have spoken.

"Are you very lame still? Could I help you to walk home?"

My father looked up, and slowly held out his hand.

"Thee hast been a good lad, and a kind lad to us; I thank thee."

There was no answer, none. But all the words in the world could not
match that happy silence.

By degrees we got my father home. It was just such another summer
morning as the one, two years back, when we two had stood, exhausted
and trembling, before that sternly-bolted door. We both thought of
that day: I knew not if my father did also.

He entered, leaning heavily on John. He sat down in the very seat, in
the very room, where he had so harshly judged us--judged him.

Something, perhaps, of that bitterness rankled in the young man's
spirit now, for he stopped on the threshold.

"Come in," said my father, looking up.

"If I am welcome; not otherwise."

"Thee art welcome."

He came in--I drew him in--and sat down with us. But his manner was
irresolute, his fingers closed and unclosed nervously. My father, too,
sat leaning his head on his two hands, not unmoved. I stole up to him,
and thanked him softly for the welcome he had given.

"There is nothing to thank me for," said he, with something of his old
hardness. "What I once did, was only justice--or I then believed so.
What I have done, and am about to do, is still mere justice. John, how
old art thee now?"

"Twenty."

"Then, for one year from this time I will take thee as my 'prentice,
though thee knowest already nearly as much of the business as I do. At
twenty-one thee wilt be able to set up for thyself, or I may take thee
into partnership--we'll see. But"--and he looked at me, then sternly,
nay, fiercely, into Joh