Still Joe sat, weeping and speechless.
“Well,” the old man added, “I must be joggin’ on. Somebody might come along an’ see us two together, an’—well, I’ve got a reppytation to lose, ye know.”
He burst into a shrill cackling laugh, grasped his twisted cane more firmly, and hobbled on around a bend in the road and out of sight.
Old Charlie, unheeded by his young master, started on.
The sun sank till the light it threw on the green September foliage was mellow and golden. From somewhere in the distance came the ting-a-ling of a cow-bell, as the herd wandered slowly home. The sound and the memories it brought started fresh tears into Joe’s eyes, and when the mist they occasioned had cleared away he found himself on the summit of Hickory Hill.
Down in the valley, half-hidden by trees, he saw the white front of his home. Behind it rose the gray roofs of the barns; before it stretched the yellow road; on it fell the soft light of the dying day.
He had drawn the reins and sat looking down on it, while Old Charlie, pricking up his ears in glad recognition of the familiar sight, pawed the ground impatiently.
“No,” Joe said, at last, “we won’t go on. It’s no use. I’m sorry, but—it’s no use.”
He turned the horse’s head, and Joe and Charlie started back.