"I'll take it, Andrew, in the spirit in which it is offered, and may God bless you. There's luck in that old hammer that lies on the anvil where father left it. The first blow I ever struck on iron I struck with that, and the first work I ever did was to make a pair of bow-pins for your father."
As soon as Morton could leave the scholars he was instructing in private, he set forward in the stage to see Rich, and well aware, by letters received, of what had occurred, made inquiries, on arriving, for the shop. Peering into the door around the corner of another building, he saw a tall, strong-built man, past middle age, fitting a horse-shoe at the anvil. Another person, of about the same age, but more slightly built, was tearing the shoe from a horse's foot. A bar of iron was heating in the fire, apparently to make a new shoe, and at the bellows stood Rich, the glory of Radcliffe, class poet, elegant scholar; those finely-cut and delicate features, that no one could look upon without interest, begrimed with smut, save where partially streaked with streams of sweat; for it was a warm afternoon in May. As he turned towards the fire, to look at the iron, Morton slipped behind him and laid his hand upon the shoulders of Rich.
CHAPTER IX. BLOOD WILL TELL.
The mingled expression of heart-felt delight, surprise, and consternation that pervaded the features of Rich, when, upon turning, he looked Morton in the face, was quite ludicrous.
"Mort!" he gasped.
"Yes, Mort," replied his visitor, grasping fervently the hand that was timidly extended to meet his own; "ain't you glad to see me?"
"Glad!" shouted Rich, grasping both the hands of Morton in his own, while the tears ran down his cheeks; "I hope you don't think I am not; but—"