"Well, Tip,"—Bob had never learned not to say Tip, and probably never would, but Edward had long since forgotten to care,—"tell every one at home that I'm well and happy, and never want to see one of them again. I don't believe I have a friend there: anyhow, I know I don't deserve to have."
CHAPTER XXVII.
"Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? By taking heed thereto, according to Thy word."
Kitty Lewis shook out the folds of her new bright pink calico dress, walked to the little looking-glass, for about the tenth time, to see if the dainty white ruffle around her neck was in order; then took a survey of the room, lest there might possibly be something else to do which would improve its appearance.
It was the same little room in which Kitty had spent her childhood, from which Johnny first, and then long afterwards the husband and father, had been carried out to return no more. And yet it was not the same,—there was a neat rag carpet on the floor, a Christmas gift from Mrs. Minturn; the round table in the corner was covered with a bright red cloth, and strewn with a few books and papers; the full white curtain was looped away from the window, and the light of a clear sunset glimmered in the room; everything was neat and bright and cheery. The table was set for tea, the white cloth showing just the folds in which it was ironed; there were three plates and three cups and saucers, instead of two, while Kitty, in her restless wanderings around the room, and Mrs. Lewis, in her frequent glances out of the window, both showed that somebody was being watched and waited for.
"The eastern train is in," Kitty said finally "Now, if he comes to-night, he'll be here in three minutes." And it could not have been much more than that when a quick, crushing step was heard on the gravel outside, then on the plank before the door, then the door swung open, and Edward Lewis walked into the little room out of which he had gone three years before.
Kitty was all ready to spring forward, say, "Oh, Tip!" and throw her arms right around his neck. Instead, she stood still. Some way, in spite of the long letters which had passed between them during these years, Kitty had fully expected to see a stout, tanned boy, in a strong, coarse suit of grey, with thick boots and a new straw hat. Of, at least,—why, of course, she knew he must have changed some; hadn't she? But then she did not think he would be so tall, and have a face and hands without tan or freckle, or that his clothes would be so very black and fine, and fit as though they had grown on him, or that his collar would be so white and glossy, or his boots so small and shiny. So Kitty stood still in embarrassed silence. But the mother,—oh, she saw in him the picture of the dear, dead father, as he used to come to her long, long ago; the husband who, through all change and poverty and pain, she had always loved! And all the tenderness that had ever been in her heart took form, and spoke in those words with which she came forward to greet her son,—"Oh, my dear boy!"
There was happiness in the little home that night; only the bedroom door was closed, and Edward knew that his father's bed was vacant.
Such a queer feeling as possessed him all the next day, while he went around the village! He went everywhere. He felt like walking through every street, and stepping on every stone on which his feet had trod in the old life, now utterly gone from him. He wandered down to the river-bank, where he had lain that summer morning and envied the fishes; and, standing there, thanked God for the mission class in Mr. Holbrook's Sabbath school. Thence to the cemetery, where by the side of little Johnny's grave the new life had been commenced. There was a long grave beside the short one now; and, standing there, he thanked God for the hope which he had of meeting the father and the baby in heaven. Thence to the great elm-tree at the foot of the hill; and, standing there, he took out once more the little red Bible, and turned the leaves lovingly; lingered over the name written by Mr. Holbrook's hand, turned again to the first verse which he had ever read from its pages: "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path." Time and again had he proved the truth of that verse. There, under that very tree, it had helped him to fight battles with Satan and come off conqueror. And he thanked God for the Bible. After that he went directly to the village; just looked in at the meat market for the sake of the old days.