A new graft on the family tree

by Pansy

"Another tramp?" said Lewis inquiringly, as Nellie slipped from her corner and went to answer the knock. "This is the third one to-day, isn't it? Those fellows are growing more plentiful."

"Strange that they straggle away out here," the mother said. "I should think they would stay in large towns."

And then Nellie gave a startled little exclamation, possibly of terror, or perhaps only of surprise, but it caused each member of the household to turn suddenly in the direction of the door; and then they exclaimed—not in terror, certainly, for there was nothing in the young man to awaken terror, but they were too much excited to analyze the tone of the exclamations. The mother was on her feet and at the door, and while the others stared and waited, and knew not what they said nor how they felt, the mother had both arms around the intruder, and her lips for the first time for years and years to his cheek, and her heart cried out,—

"Oh, my boy! My boy!"

Now, I am sure you do not expect me to tell you what the Morgan family said to each other and to John for the next ten minutes. They do not know themselves; they could not recall afterward how they acted, nor what were the first words spoken, nor who, after the mother, spoke first. And if I should tell the tale, the probabilities are that it would sound strange and unnatural, the words, trivial in the extreme, unsuited to the occasion. It is even a chance if the speakers thereof would not declare, "I don't believe I said any such thing; it doesn't sound like me." Such scenes are better left untold. The heart-throbs, and the quivers of lip and chin, and the glances exchanged from wet eyes, cannot be described, and have much more to do with the matter than mere words.

Thus much Dorothy remembered; that after the first surprise was subsiding, before even it had time to subside, she made haste to the pantry, and coming thence with knife and plate, motioned Louise, who had taken the hint, further to the left, and arranged for John his old seat near his father, and set his chair and said, "Come, John;" and then all settled into their places again. And Farmer Morgan remembers it now with a curious, half-ashamed smile how he filled John's plate full to overflowing with the cold beans that he remembered he used to like, and then, unmindful of what he did, reached forward and added another spoonful after the plate had been passed. Well, what mattered it, whether expressed in beans or some other way, so that the heart made known the fact that it wanted to give even to overflowing to the son who was lost and is alive again. The familiar sentence hovered through Louise's mind, "Was he alive?" She looked at him stealthily, tremblingly, while Lewis talked. His face looked older, much older; worn and grave, not hard; the eyes were clear and steady, and his dress was that of a cleanly, respectable working-man. But how much hope was there that he would bring gladness with him to the old home—a gladness that would stay?

"Well," John said, pushing his chair forward so that his face was more in shadow, and the tone of the simple little word sent that thrill of expectancy through the family group which comes in unison with a feeling that something important is coming. This was after the tea-things had been cleared away and the room had assumed order and quiet. Not that there had been much bustle about the work that evening. Mrs. Morgan had done what was for her a surprising thing: she pushed her chair back from the table and sat still during all the moving to and fro from pantry to cellar, unmindful, for the first time in her life, as to whether the milk went down in the right pitcher or the bread went down at all. Louise and Dorothy had moved softly, had set back chairs noiselessly, and dried cups and plates without a sound, so as to lose no syllable of the conversation. But it was not until they were seated that John spoke that little preparatory word.

"I have a long story to tell—a very long one. I don't know where to begin or how to begin; only this, I have made up my mind to strike into the middle of it first, and to say to you, father, and to you, mother, that I want you to forgive me for everything that is past in my life that has hurt you; and I know that is a great deal. I want to tell you that I have begun life again—begun at the beginning. In short, I feel that I can honestly say, 'This your son was dead, and is alive again; was lost, and is found.'" And he turned to his mother with a smile that evidently she understood.

"Did you really get my letter?" she asked him, her voice so full of eagerness and so unlike herself that Louise could not avoid a wondering look.

"Yes," John said, "I did;" and he launched at once into the details of the series of apparent accidents which had brought him his mother's letter. "I was signing an acknowledgment of a package received for Mr. Stuart, and I had to sign my own name, so that in case of loss, you know, it could be traced to me. As I wrote my name, the carrier, who stood by, said, 'There has been a letter lying in the office up here at Station D for a person of that name. I remember it because it has neither street nor number—just the name and the city. We thought it was intended for John Y. Morgan, the mason, but he brought it back to the station; said it was none of his; said it commenced, "My dear son," and the two people who used to commence letters that way for him had been in heaven for a dozen years.'"