My father was seated at a common uncovered deal table, poring over an old account-book, as if in hopes of finding a way out of his difficulties. My mother, looking very care-worn and grey, was seated by a back window mending some old garments, and now and then stopping to wipe her eyes. At least that is what I presumed, for she was in the act of wiping them as I dashed in.
“Mother! father!” I exclaimed, and the next moment the poor old lady was sobbing in my arms, kissing me again and again, and amidst her sobbing telling my father that she knew how it would be—that it had been foolish of him to despair, for she was certain that her boy would come back and help them as soon as he knew that they were in trouble.
“When did you get the letter, my darling?” she said as she clung closer to me.
“Letter!” I said; “I’ve had no letter.”
My mother looked up at me wonderingly.
“Had no letter, Harry?”
“No, my dear mother; I have not had a line since I have been gone.”
My mother loosened her hold of me and turned to my father as he stood looking on.
“You did not write to him,” she said.
“Oh, yes, I daresay he did, mother,” I cried, “but of late I have been travelling about a great deal.”