"Get in, mother—we'll drive back," he said quietly.
His mother, startled beyond measure at the prospect of extravagance so unwonted, began to remonstrate, almost refusing. But a different note seemed to have come into Harvey's voice, his words touched with something that indicated a new era, something of the authority that great compassion gives, and in a moment she found herself yielding with a dependent confidence she had never felt before.
"Where to?" asked the man.
"Anywhere," said Harvey—"somewhere near the station; I'll tell you where."
"It'll—it'll cost a dollar," the man ventured, his hand still on the door and his eyes making a swift inventory of the boy's rather unpromising apparel.
"I'll pay you," the latter answered sternly. "Shut the door; close the window too," he ordered—"close both the windows. And don't drive fast."
The spendthrift impulse must have been heaven-born and that vagrant chariot been piloted from afar. For they two within felt something of sanctuary peace as the driver vanished to his place and they found themselves alone—alone with each other and the sorrow that was deep and thrilling as their love. They could hear and feel the busy tide of life about them; the pomp of wealth and the tumult of business frowned from towering mansions, or swept indifferent by, knowing nothing, caring less, about those nestling two who were all alone in the mighty city—but they had each other, and the haughty world was shut out from them, all its cruel grandeur, all its surging billows powerless to rob them of what their stricken hearts held dear. And, if the truth were told, many a stately house and many a flashing carriage that passed them by, held less of love's real wealth than did the mud-bespattered cab that creaked and rumbled on its way.
Several minutes elapsed before either spoke. Then the mother turned towards the silent lad, her face sweet in the wistful smile that stole across it.
"Did you find what you went back for, dear?" she asked.
Harvey cast one sharp agonized glance towards the gentle face—and it told him all. He knew then that the pain of either concealing or revealing was to be spared him; but his heart leaped in pity and in boundless love as he saw the light upon the worn face, the brave and tender signal that he knew the wounded spirit had furnished all for him.