He no longer paid heed to the beauty of the day, the splendor of the sun, or the rich luxuriance of the early autumn foliage. He was looking only into his own heart. He was thinking only of his inexcusable folly and wickedness in leaving so good a home. He was wondering what his father would say to him; how his mother would receive him; whether his little sister would ever again care to play with him as of old.
He was wondering, indeed, if his parents would wish to have him come home at all, disgraced as he was; if the door of his father’s house would not be shut and barred against him forever.
“Hello, ther! W’at’s the matter wi’ ye?”
The exclamation, coming so suddenly and unexpectedly, so startled Joe that he almost fell from his horse. He had been so deeply engrossed in thought that he had not seen any one approaching. He looked down now and discovered a little old man standing near the horse’s head.
The man was shrunken, knock-kneed, eccentric in dress and manner, and leaned heavily on his cane. Joe recognized him at once as a neighborhood character, whom every one knew by the name of Uncle Billy.
“W’y, I thought ye was asleep,” said the old man. “I was fearful ye’d tumble off the hoss.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” replied Joe. “I was thinkin’.”
“A-thinkin’!” exclaimed Uncle Billy; “w’at right’s a boy like you got to be a-thinkin’, I’d like to know?” He advanced a step and laid his hand on Old Charlie’s neck. “Ben a good hoss in ’is day,” he commented; “looks like the hoss Leonard Gaston use to hev,—the one ’at was stole.”
“It is,” replied Joe; “it’s the same horse.”