"No."
"Then, Mr. Carlyle, will you help get Mr. Nixon into the wagon?"
Dennis Carlyle, who was a stout, muscular young man, lent a hand, and the old man soon found himself in the wagon, sitting in his favorite chair.
"Sha'n't we need to carry some dishes? There's a few in yonder closet."
"Not to-day, Mr. Nixon. We shall have all the dishes and kitchen utensils left by Mr. Morris."
It was not long before they found themselves at the door of the new home. Gerald helped Mr. Nixon out of the wagon, and led the way into the house. All was neat and comfortable, and furnished a very favorable contrast to the dilapidated cabin where Nixon had lived so many years. There was a woolen carpet on the floor of the sitting-room, an eight-day clock on the mantel, three or four pictures on the walls, and a comfortable couch on one side of the room. The old man heaved a sigh of satisfaction.
"This is the way I used to live," he said.
"It is the way you shall live hereafter," said Gerald.
"It makes me feel younger already. What a wonderful boy you are!"
Gerald smiled.