On the day that Myles received the letter from Mr. Saxon he inclosed it in an envelope with one written by himself, and took them to Jacob Allen’s cottage, in which the striker’s wife and little Bob still remained. The child was playing outside, and its mother sat in the door-way sewing. Myles lifted his hat as he asked:
“Is this Mrs. Allen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did your husband tell you of what an escape little Bob there had a week or so ago?”
“Indeed he did, sir, and it makes me tremble now to think of it. The child was saved by a New York reporter. God bless him!”
“Yes,” said Myles, flushing a little, “I know it, for I am the reporter who was fortunate enough to be on hand just in time.”
“You, sir! Are you Mr. Manning?” cried the woman, starting from her chair and gazing eagerly in Myles’ face.
“Yes, that is my name.”
“Well, sir, I’ve wanted badly to see you and thank you with my own lips, and I would have done so too but for the trouble that has come to my man. They are watching me that close in the hope of me leading them to him that I can’t stir from the house without being followed. But oh, sir, I’m proud to see you, and thankful, and may a mother’s blessing follow you all the years of your life for the brave deed you did that night!”