“And a daughter named Tillie?” asked Tom.
“Yes, yes! I remember it all now. Where, where are they?”
And he clutched Tom’s arm as he searched his face for an answer.
“Father,” said Tom, with emotion, “I am your son Tom.”
“And—and your mother?”
“She still lives. She is waiting for you to return to her.”
Robert Thatcher passed his hand over his brow.
“Can this be true?” he asked, “or is it a dream?”
“It is no dream, father. I have come to California to take you home. Will you come?”
“Yes, yes, now. But,” he added, with momentary doubt, “you cannot be Tom. Tom was a little boy, and you are a large one. He was only half your size.”