"Father?"
The old man would not speak, but drew a long, heavy breath, which smothered a sigh, while it was intended to deceive the good soul into a belief of his sound slumber.
"Father, I say?"
Still he would not answer, for the poor mother had got a habit of keeping herself awake with midnight conversations in these days, and he was determined to put it down with masterly inactivity.
"Dear old man, I'm glad he can sleep so sound," she murmured, rising softly to her elbow and putting the gray locks back from his forehead, which she kissed with infinite tenderness. "It's a shame to wake him up."
The old man turned softly, and said with inward contrition, "I am awake, wife."
"Father, I think there's some one knocking at the window."
The old man lifted his head, and listened.
"Mrs. Thrasher! oh, Mrs. Thrasher, wont you let me in?"
There was a moan of anguish in the words that struck to the heart at once. The old man held his breath, while the wife clung to him with her head lifted from the pillow.