"Mother! dear, dear mother!" came sobbing from the lips of Andrew, as he returned her embrace fervently.
"Am I dreaming? or, is this all really so?" murmured the happy mother, pushing her son from her, yet clinging to him with an earnest grasp, and gazing fondly upon his face.
"It is no dream, mother," returned Andrew, "but a glad reality. After a long, long absence I have come back."
"Long—long! Oh, it has been an age, my son! How could you? But hush, my chiding heart! My wandering one has returned, and I will ask no questions as to his absence. Enough that I look upon his face again."
Andrew now led his mother to a seat, and taking one beside her, while he still held her hand tightly, and gazed with a look of tenderness into her face, said—
"You have grown old in nine years, mother; older than I had thought."
"Do you wonder at it, my son?" significantly inquired Mrs. Howland.
"I ought not to wonder, perhaps," replied Andrew, a touch of sadness in his voice. "There is such a thing as living too fast for time."
"You may well say that," answered Mrs. Howland, with visible emotion, "Years are sometimes crowded into as many days. This has been my own experience."
Both were now silent for a little while.