An hour later there was a knock at the door. Mrs. Barton answered it in person.
"Why, Uncle Jacob, is it really you?" she exclaimed, joyfully.
"I'm delighted to see you, Mary," said the old man, his face lighting up. "I've been waiting twenty-five years for this meeting."
"Come right in, Uncle Jacob. I can hardly believe it is really you. Now tell me why you have not written these many years."
"I've no good excuse, Mary, but perhaps I shall think of one bimeby. Now tell me how you are getting along?"
"I am not rich, as you can see, Uncle Jacob; but as long as Bert and I have our health, and work to do, I shall be contented."
"Do you know, Mary," said Jacob Marlowe, looking about the plain little sitting-room, "I like your house better than Albert's?"
"I don't think you will find many to agree with you."
"Perhaps not, but this seems like home, and that doesn't."
"Albert's house is finely furnished."