It was Dick’s voice, but not Dick’s face.
“Open the window.”
Like a man in a dream, the rector loosened the catch, and opened the casement.
“Father—father! It is I—Dick—alive! and glad to be home.”
The clergyman retreated as from a ghost—afraid. 230
“Don’t be afraid of me. The report of my death was all a mistake, father.”
“Dick—Dick—my boy—back—alive!”
The father folded his son to his heart, with a cry of joy and a sudden rush of tears. He babbled incoherently, and gasped for breath. Dick supported the faltering steps to the chair by the desk. Then, he closed the window silently, and flinging his cap upon the table, slowly divested himself of the long ulster.
The inevitable pause of embarrassment followed.
“I’ve come to have a talk with you, father,” said Dick, cheerily. He seized the poker, and raked together the embers of the dying fire, as naturally as though no interval of time had elapsed since he was there last.