HE BRINGS JOY INTO THE HOUSE.
All was silent and dark in the little house where Hanz Toodleburg lived, when the wagon containing Tite and the inn-keeper drew up at the gate. A dull, dreamy stillness seemed to hang over the place, and the little, old house was in the full enjoyment of a deep sleep. The two men alighted, and Tite stood for a few minutes viewing the scene around him. How strange and yet how familiar everything seemed. He was at the opposite side of the world only a few months ago, and time had sped on so swiftly that it seemed as if he had gone to bed at night on one side of the globe, and waked up in the morning at the other. Then he was on an island almost unknown to the rest of the world, surrounded by scenes so wild, so strange and romantic, that the reader would not believe them real.
Here now was the old lattice gate, the vine-covered arbor leading through the garden to the cracked and blistered-faced front door, the stack of hop-vines in the garden-corner, and the rickety veranda where, when a boy, he used to sit beside his father of a summer evening, for it was here Hanz welcomed his friends and smoked his pipe. It was here, too, that Angeline, the spirit of whose sweet face had been with him in his wanderings, used to sit at her flax-wheel, spinning thread that was famous in Fly Market.
Could this be a sweet dream, a beautiful delusion, a spirit-spell that moves the soul with pictures of love and enchantment, and from which some stern reality would soon awake him and dispel the charm? No, it was reality, appealing more forcibly to all that was true and kindly in his nature, and filling his eyes with tears.
The inn-keeper noticed the effect it was having on his feelings, and made an effort to divert his attention. "Looks kind o' natural after bein' round the world doesn't it, Tite?" he enquired.
"Yes—seems like home again," was the quiet reply.
"Zounds!" exclaimed the inn-keeper, suddenly; "but there's somethin' heavy in it." In attempting to lift the valise from the wagon it had fallen to the ground under its great weight. The inn-keeper shook his head and rubbed his hands. "Had a lucky voyage, I reckon," he concluded.
"More than eighty pounds of solid gold in that," returned Tite, coolly. The mention of so much gold astonished and delighted the inn-keeper.
"There'll be such a time when the town hears that!" said he. "There'll be enough o' them that'll call you their friend."
"Left three times as much more in the city," resumed Tite. "And there's enough on an island in the Pacific to buy a town as big as Nyack. And I know where it is."
"Eighty pounds of solid gold!" said the inn-keeper, looking enquiringly at Tite, then stooping down and testing the weight of the valise with his hands. "It's so. I always did know you'd come home a rich man."
They now carried the valise into the veranda, knocked at the door, and listened for footsteps within. The big old dog had been growling and barking fiercely for several minutes. Now he recognized the friendly voice of the inn-keeper, and barked them a welcome. He then ran to the little room where Hanz was sleeping, and only ceased barking when he got up.
Soft footsteps were heard inside, a dim light shone through the little window opening into the veranda, and a voice inside enquired: "Who comes t' mine house sho late?"
"Open the door, friend Toodleburg," replied the inn-keeper. "Shouldn't have disturbed you at this hour; but there's a gentleman here would like to see you—an' I'm sure you'd like to see him."
The old man opened the door at the sound of Bright's voice, and stood gazing at the visitors with an air of bewilderment. "You prings me goot news, eh, Bright?" he enquired. "Yes, I am shure you prings me shome news ash ish goot."
"Father, father," said Tite, advancing with his right hand extended, "you don't know me?"
"Ton't know mine own Tite? Mine poor poy Tite!" exclaimed the old man in a paroxysm of joy. "Yes I does." And he raised his hands, and threw his arms around Tite's neck, and wept for joy. "Ton't know mine own Tite," he repeated, raising his head and looking up in Tite's face, "yes I does. Yes, I shay mine Tite will cum home; an' he cums home—and mine poor old heart he pees sho glat. Yes, he pees you, mine Tite. You prings shoy into mine house. Mine poor Tite—he com'd home t' mine house. Tar pees no more shorrow now in mine house." The old man was overcome with joy. The idol of the house was home again, and true happiness reigned under that little roof.
"You ton't go away no more, mine Tite," he continued, patting him on the shoulder and pressing his hand.
Angeline heard Tite's voice and came rushing into the room frantic with joy. "Thank God! thank God!" she exclaimed. "He has brought our boy safe back to us." And she embraced him, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him again and again.
"And I am so glad to get back to you, mother," he replied, returning her affection, and pressing her to his breast fondly. "It is so good to be in my old home, where I can receive your blessings, and be good to you."
And Angeline looked up in his face with such a sweet smile, as she patted him on the shoulder, and their tears mingled in the sweetest of joy as she invoked God's blessing on his head. Truly, God had heard their prayer, had blessed them, and had again made their little home bright with joy.
"I wish Chapman could look in here now," said Bright, "there'd be a lesson for him on what happiness is worth." And he shook Tite by the hand, told him to remember that his house was always open to him, and left for the night.
Even the old dog seemed anxious to join in welcoming the young gentleman back, for he would look up affectionately in his face, draw his body close to his feet, and lay his huge paw on his knee.
And now a fire was lighted, and Angeline prepared supper for Tite, for he had eaten nothing since morning. The chair that had stood empty so long was filled now, and the happiness that reigned under that little roof was such as gold could not purchase.