"So strong and energetic," responded the father.
"Ah, if he would but come once more to see his old father and mother."
The old lady bent over her knitting, and pretended to search for a false stitch, but it was only to conceal the tears that swelled tenderly into her eyes.
Thrasher could bear no more. The man loved his parents, and those soft tears in his mother's eyes brought moisture to his own. How innocent and childlike the old people were, in comparison with him. Satan, when looking over the flow'ry walls of Paradise, must have felt as he did, listening to that household conversation.
The old man took up his glasses again, and began to read. The mother kept on with her work, listening, with meek faith, to the holy words that fell from her husband's lips. All at once she started, dropped the knitting in her lap, and listened.
"It is his step!"
The old man raised his face from the Bible, and listened, also.
"Yes, Eunice, it is!"
The door opened, and their son stood on the threshold—a strong, handsome fellow, such as the father had described him. There was no outcry of joy, no wordy demonstrations; but a tender gladness possessed the old people. The mother kissed him, almost timidly. There was something that awed her tenderness in this powerful young man, though he did tremble in her gentle embrace.
"My son, you are welcome home—oh, my son!"