He enclosed this letter in one he had written to Don, because he wished Helène to read it after Tyler had seen her. He then drove to the Post-office and despatched the letters himself.
The rest of the afternoon he spent in making various calls on officials and agents, and by midnight he was on the train rushing to Liverpool where early the next morning he boarded the steamer which was to carry him home—home at last!
CHAPTER XVII
THE following Sunday Morton, standing on the upper deck of the good ship Umbria, saw in the distance the serrated outline of his country’s real metropolis. Up the bay, past the gaunt and gray structures looming above the sands of Coney Island, through the leaden murk and mist of the late autumn day, his eyes roved and lingered, glorying inwardly at the pride and pomp of New York. He took in deep draughts of the air. It was good to be back again, and his heart lifted.
He was met at the pier by a representative from the office who told him that his father’s condition was still unchanged. He had received word to tell Mr. Morton that he was to take the train for Cleveland without delay.
At daybreak, the following morning, he was once again in Cleveland, the city of his childhood, the place of his home. The coachman, an ancient servitor of the Mortons, greeted him with welcoming smiles and glad words. Even the horses knew him and neighed as he stroked their manes. The drive through the deserted streets, so familiar to him, brought back to his mind so many memories that he could scarce see the houses for the moisture in his eyes. The tinkling of the silver harness, the hoof-beats of the spirited animals were music to his ears. Ah, at last, there was the tall iron gate that led to home! With a bound he was through it and running swiftly up the pebbled approach he almost fell into the waiting, outstretched arms of his mother and sister.
“Home at last, John,” cried the mother, kissing and hugging him while Ruth had her hands on his arms.
“Yes, dear mother, home at last. But how is father?”