"You are right, father. We should only have gone from bad to worse. I don't take to hard work, but the other thing suits me exactly. You'll see that I shall come up to time in that."
Just then the old clock struck one with a hoarse, angry clang, as if wrathful that the morning should be encroached upon in that house.
Mrs. Storms took up one of the candles and gave it to her son.
"Good-night, my son," she said, looking from the clock to her husband with pathetic tenderness in her voice. "Dick, you can kiss me good-night as you used to when I went to tuck up your bed in the winter. It'll seem like old times, won't it, husband? Shake hands with your father, too. It isn't many men as would give up as he has."
The young man kissed his mother, with some show of feeling, and shook hands with his father in a hesitating way; but altogether his manner was so conciliatory that it touched those honest hearts with unusual tenderness.
"You see what kindness can do with him," said Mrs. Storms, as she stood on the hearth with the other candlestick in her hand, while her husband raked up the fire. "He has gone up to bed with a smile on his face."
"People are apt to smile when they get their own way," muttered the old man, who was half ashamed of his concession. "But I have no idea of taking anything back. You needn't be afraid of that. The young man shall have his chance."
A sob was the only answer he got. Looking over his shoulder, as he put the shovel in its corner, he saw that tears were streaming down the old woman's face.
"Why, what are you crying about, mother?"
"I am so thankful."