Early a broken-down man, he determined to go back to his native town, and perhaps seek again the home he had abandoned. He stole a ride on a freight train and reached the city just as the evening lamps were being lighted. A cold sleet was falling.
He was faint from lack of food, and excited with the thought of the old times of boyhood and a possible glad reception at his home. He found the house, passed it, and saw his father and mother at supper. He went up the street and then returned, going to the back door and asking for food.
“We never give anything at the door,” said the well-instructed servant, and shut it in his face. He walked away. The impulse was strong to go back and say that the long-lost son had returned. He hesitated, turned his face back towards home, walked up the familiar pathway to the front door, raised his hand to ring the bell, became dizzy, and fell heavily on the porch.
Mr. and Mrs. Heatherstone were startled at the sound. “What has happened, husband?” she said, and both hastened to the door. “Oh, Mark, Mark!” exclaimed the mother, as she gazed upon the face of her apparently dead son. He was carried into the best apartment and a physician summoned.
“It is a heart attack and he will rally,” said the doctor, “but his living is only a question of time.”
When Mark was partially restored to his former self he told of the struggles he had been through, of some kindness and much indifference and hardness, even being turned away in the rain from his mother’s door because he asked for food. “That nearly broke my heart, mother,” he said. “Don’t let man or dog or cat go away from your door hungry. Who knows but they will die upon somebody’s doorstep?”
Mrs. Heatherstone grew tenderer with the coming months, and when Mark passed away she was a changed woman. She had been made unselfish through a great sorrow.