“Wentworth!” cried the brakeman, slamming open the door. “Wentworth!”
And in an instant Tommy was on the platform, where his teacher was awaiting him.
“He is not dead?” he cried, looking anxiously into her face, dreading what he might read there. “Don’t say he is dead!”
“No, no,” protested Miss Andrews, smiling at him reassuringly. “He is not dead. He is not going to die. But he wants to see you so badly!”
Together they hurried up the steep, narrow path, Miss Andrews wondering within herself if this could be the same boy she had known. He seemed so changed—years older. As they neared the house, Tommy caught sight of a familiar figure standing in the doorway looking down at them, and he ran forward and up the steps to the porch.
“Oh, mother!” he cried, and nestled close against her breast as her arms strained him to her.
His mother said never a word, but the tears were streaming down her face as she bent over him and kissed him.
“Come in an’ see your pa,” she said. “He’s been askin’ fer you ever sence it happened.”
Tommy followed her into the little room,—how squalid it seemed now in comparison with the bright, airy rooms at Lawrenceville!—and stood for an instant, looking down at the wan figure on the bed.
“Tommy!” it gasped.