“Yes, put him into his own bed—his own bed!” shrieked his mother. “Oh, Abel, dear soul, come and sleep in your own bed again, after all these years! Poor man, poor man, you've got home to your own bed!”
Jerome gave his mother's thin, vibrating shoulder a firm shake. “Mother,” he said, “tell me—you must tell me—is this man father?”
“Don't you know him? Don't you know your own father? Look at him.” Ann threw back her head and pointed at the old worn face on her breast.
Jerome stared at it. “Where—did he come—from?” he panted.
“I don't know. He's come. Oh, Abel, Abel, you've come home!”
“Give me some of that brandy, quick,” Jerome called to Elmira, who stood trembling, holding the bottle and glass. He poured out some brandy, and, with a teaspoon, fed the old man, a few drops at a time. Presently he raised his head feebly, but it sank back. He tried to speak. “Don't try to talk,” said Jerome; “wait till you're rested. Mother, let him alone now; sit down there. Elmira, you must try and help me a little.”
“If you've got to be helped, I'll help,” cried Ann, fiercely.
With that his mother, who had not walked since he could remember, ran into the bedroom, and began spreading the sheets smooth and shaking the pillows.
The old man was a light-weight. Jerome almost carried him into the bedroom, and laid him on the bed. He fed him with more brandy, and put hot-water bottles around him. Presently he breathed evenly in a sweet sleep. Ann sat by his side, holding his hand, and would not stir, though Jerome besought her to go up-stairs to Elmira's room.
“I guess I don't leave him to stray away again,” said she.