"And is this all?—did you never hear of them again?" inquired the mother, rising to her feet.
"No; we never heard of them after that. They drifted off with the wreck, and what became of them no one can tell."
"This will be sorrowful news for our neighbor. Husband, I wish some other person than our son had brought it."
Thrasher arose hastily.
"Good night, mother. Shall I sleep in the old room?"
His voice shook, and he seemed greatly disturbed.
"Yes, yes, my son. You are tired out. Go up to your old room."
CHAPTER XV.
BREAKFAST IN THE OLD HOMESTEAD.
Nelson Thrasher could not sleep under his father's roof. The neat, high posted bed, with its blue and white coverlet that he had slept under in boyhood, was so familiar that it seemed to reproach him in its homeliness for the great change that had fallen on himself. The little looking-glass over the cherry-wood dressing stand, flashed upon him like a human eye angry and fierce at the intrusion of a guilty man where an innocent boy had slept. As his foot touched the rag carpet, worn smooth by his light tread, years ago, the breath paused on his lips, and the stern face softened into sadness so deep, that his worst enemy might have pitied him.