“It is possible; but, at all events, I don't think it right to keep it from Timothy any longer. I've put off writing as long as I could, hoping Jack would come back, but I don't feel as if I ought to hold it back any longer. I shall write in the morning, and tell Timothy to come right on. It'll be a dreadful blow to him.”
“Yes, better wait till morning, Abel. Who knows but we may hear from Jack before that time?”
The baker shook his head.
“If we'd been going to hear, we'd have heard before this time,” he said.
He did not sleep very soundly that night. Anxiety for Jack, and the thought of his brother's affliction, kept him awake.
About half-past two, he heard a noise at the front door, followed by a knocking. Throwing open the window, he exclaimed, “Who's there?”
“A friend,” was the answer.
“What friend?” asked the baker, suspiciously. “Friends are not very apt to come at this time of night.”
“Don't you know me, Uncle Abel?” asked a cheery voice.
“Why, it's Jack, I verily believe,” said Abel Crump, joyfully, as he hurried down stairs to admit his late visitor.