"No. I can help you. For God's sake tell me who you are."
But Yarrow left him, and went down the road, hiding, when he tried to pursue him,—sitting close behind a pile of lumber. He was there when found: so tired that the last hour and the last years began to seem like dreams. Something cold roused him, nozzling at his throat. An old yellow dog, its eyes burning.
"Why, Ready," he said, faintly, "have you come?"
"Come home," said the dog's eyes, speaking out what the whole day had tried to say: "they're waiting for you; they've been waiting always; home's there, and love's there, and the good God's there, and it's Christmas day. Come home!"
Yarrow struggled up, and put his arms about the dog's neck: kissed him with all the hunger for love smothered in these many years.
"He don't know I'm a thief," he thought.
Ready bit angrily at coat and trousers.
"Be a man, and come home."
Yarrow understood. He caught his breath, as he went along, holding by the fence now and then.
"It's the chance!" he said. "And Martha! It's Martha and the little chaps!"