“Down, Rover, down! Don’t you know your master?” exclaimed the returned wanderer, as the great mastiff sprang at him with a low, savage growl, which changed at once to vehement proclamations of welcome as the faithful creature recognized his friend.
“Bless the dog! But be quiet! We want to surprise the old folks.”
In the cosey sitting-room of the little cottage sat a prematurely aged woman, plying her needle and softly crooning a plaintive lullaby. A couple of tallow candles burned dimly on a little table, and a much-worn work-basket sat at her left. In the opposite corner an old man sat, his head bowed, as if sleeping. An open Bible had fallen from his hand.
“There’s but one pair of stockings to mend to-night,” sighed the woman, as she folded her finished work, her thoughts reverting to scenes long vanished.
The white-bearded man aroused himself at her words and spoke.
“John is forty-three to-night,” he said huskily, his finger pointing to the family record.
“God be with him till we meet again!” was the sighing response as the mother struggled to thread her needle by the flickering light.
“Mary is a year younger than John; and Joseph came to us two years later than Mary,” said the patriarch, his finger still pointing to the cherished page.
“Oh, father!” cried the wife, “do you think I shall ever hold my Joseph in my arms again?”