For the next week, great were the preparations for the old man's departure, and when finally he left the old gate and turned his back on the little cottage it was as if he were going on a great journey rather than a trip of less than a hundred miles. It had been a long time since he had been on a train, and at first he felt a little dubious. But he was soon at home, for his kindly face drew his fellow-passengers to him, and he had no lack of pleasant companions on the way.
Like Fred, the noises of the great station would have bewildered him, but as he alighted
and passed through the gate a strong hand was laid on his shoulder, and his palm was pressing the palm of his beloved son. The old carpet-bag fell from his hands.
"Freddie Brent, it ain't you?"
"It 's I, Uncle 'Liph, and no one else. And I 'm so glad to see you that I don't know what to do. Give me that bag."
They started away, the old man chattering like a happy child. He could not keep from feasting his eyes on the young man's face and form.
"Well, Freddie, you jest don't look like yoreself. You 're—you 're—"
"I 'm a man, Uncle 'Liph."
"I allus knowed you 'd be, my boy. I allus knowed you 'd be. But yore aunt Hester told me to ask you ef—ef you 'd dropped all yore religion. She 's mighty disturbed about yore dancin'."
Brent laughed aloud in pure joy.