Across the Years

by Eleanor H. Porter

“Oh, we don’t have to reckon on that part now,” interrupted William impatiently, as he thrust his hands into his pockets and brought out a bill and some change. “I can send you down some more when that time comes. There, here’s a two; if it doesn’t take it all, what’s left can go toward bringing you back.”

And he handed out the bill, and dropped the change into his pocket.

“Thank you, William,” stammered the old man. “I--I’m sorry--”

“Oh, that’s all right,” cut in William cheerfully, with a wave of his two hands. “Glad to do it, father; glad to do it!”

Mr. and Mrs. Whipple stayed some weeks with their nephew. But, much as they enjoyed their visit, there came a day when home--regardless of weeds that were present and wax wreaths that were absent--seemed to them the one place in the world; and they would have gone there at once had it not been for the railroad fares.

William had not sent down any more money, though his letters had been kind, and had always spoken of the warm welcome that awaited them any time they wished to come home.

Toward the end of the fifth week a bright idea came to Jeremiah.

“We’ll go to Cousin Abby’s,” he announced gleefully to his wife. “Nathan said last night he’d drive us over there any time. We’ll go to-morrow, an’ we won’t come back here at all--it’ll be ten miles nearer home there, an’ it won’t cost us a cent ter get there,” he finished triumphantly. And to Cousin Abby’s they went.

So elated was Jeremiah with the result of his scheming that he set his wits to work in good earnest, and in less than a week he had formulated an itinerary that embraced the homes of two other cousins, an aunt of Sarah Ellen’s, and the niece of a brother-in-law, the latter being only three miles from ’his own farmhouse--or rather William’s farmhouse, as he corrected himself bitterly. Before another month had passed, the round of visits was accomplished, and the little old man and the little old woman--having been carried to their destination in each case by their latest host--finally arrived at the farmhouse door. They were weary, penniless, and half-sick from being feasted and fêted at every turn, but they were blissfully conscious that of no one had they been obliged to beg the price of their journey home.

“We didn’t write we were comin’,” apologized Jeremiah faintly, as he stumbled across the threshold and dropped into the nearest chair. “We were goin’ ter write from Keziah’s, but we were so tired we hurried right up an’ come home. ’Tis nice ter get here; ain’t it, Hester?” he finished, settling back in his chair.