"A soldier!" said the old man. "Ah! and from India—come in and rest a bit. From India, did you say? I once had a son there—come in, talk with me, if only for an hour. It may be that I may hear something of my boy. He went away nearly twenty-four years ago, and I never heard from him afterwards. Sometimes I think he is dead, and then sometimes I don't. The neighbours feel sure he is dead, but sometimes I have an idea that I shall yet hear from him—I scarcely dare to hope it, though. Come, soldier, don't stand here, the evening is cold: walk up to the house; my little Richard will know where you can lodge for the night. He knows every one in the village."
Without uttering a single word, Hubert followed the old man. Richard saw them coming, and, at his grandfather's bidding, drew another chair to the fire for the stranger.
The old man changed his shoes, and then, putting his feet upon a stool before the fire, turned his face to Hubert, as he said—
"There was a time when the very name of a soldier was hateful to me, but circumstances change one. I had a care for all my lads, but for that one that went into the army I had the most care, and it was better, perhaps, that he should be taken from me. For more than twenty years, though, I refused to be comforted for his loss, but I now do feel that it was God's will, for that boy was our eldest, and we thought a deal too much of him until he rebelled against us. He often stood between us and our Maker—I mean he had our first and best thoughts. It will not do, soldier, for the heart to worship more than one, and that one must be God. Our poor lad, God forgive him! paid us ill for our care—he was ungrateful—he forgot us. Bitterly, indeed, we felt the truth of the proverb, that 'sharper than a serpent's tooth is an unthankful child,'" And the old man brushed away a tear; then, looking into the stranger's face, he added, "Did you ever hear of a Hubert Goodwin in India?"
"Hubert Goodwin?" repeated Hubert, with a husky voice. "Goodwin?—but why should you think your son is dead, or that he has forgotten you? He may have written, or something may have prevented him. His letters may have been lost, or a thousand things happened, and he may have regretted the silence as much as you have."
"Is it possible," replied the old man, much excited, "that my poor lad ever thought I had forgotten him?" and he bowed his whitened head.
Before this little scene was half finished, the unworthiness of the part he was playing smote Hubert's heart; he had never intended offering any excuse for his past misconduct, and he felt so self-convicted at the sight of the grief he had so unwittingly caused, that, raising up the old man's head, he said, with deep emotion, "No, father! father, I had forgotten—not you."
"What, Hubert!" cried the old man, pushing him back, and wildly gazing at him. "Hubert! my Hubert! No!" Then he laughed, and then, pointing upward, he added: "Perhaps he's up in heaven with the others, poor lad. I'll tell him there that I never forgot him: poor lad, he'll forgive me; I never forgot him."
While the old man was speaking, young Richard whispered something to Hubert, who immediately moved behind his father's high-backed chair.
"Grandfather, dear," said the boy, as he kissed his cheek, "why do you cry?"