“It is a common name. This boy is Tom Thatcher.”
The old man clutched his hoe convulsively.
“What did you say?” he asked, eagerly.
“Tom Thatcher—the same as yours.”
“Let me look at him,” said Thatcher, abruptly, hurrying to Tom and looking into his face with a bewildered look.
“Boy,” he said, hoarsely, “where do you come from? Who is your father?”
“I come from the town of Wilton,” answered Tom, trembling with excitement. “My father’s name was Robert Thatcher.”
“Wilton! Robert Thatcher! Why, that’s my name! Good heaven! what does this mean?”
“Did you ever have a son named Tom?” asked the banker.
“Why—yes,” answered Thatcher, his face lighting up with returning memory.