"Hah!" said the old farmer. He had boys of his own, not so very long ago either, although he looked so old, and though they were all but one out in the world and promising to be successful men, his heart went back to the time when they were little chaps and running about the farm.
The one who was not out in the world was safe at rest from all temptation and suffering. There was a tiny grave on the hill-top back of the old homestead, and here the farmer often stole in an odd moment, and Betsey his wife went of an afternoon when the work was done up, for a quiet time with her darling—the little Richard, so early folded away from her care, and Sundays they always went together to get peace and resignation for the coming week.
"What's the trouble with the boys?" asked the farmer, quickly.
Thomas looked into his face and the first gleam of hope he had known, now radiated his own countenance. Here was a man who evidently meant to help, and that right speedily.
"Oh sir," he cried, "they're over at Sachem Hill, and locked out of their house."
"Over at Sachem Hill and locked out of their house," repeated the farmer. "How did that happen?"
"'Twas me," cried Thomas miserably, and then he laid bare his confession.
Farmer Bassett said never a word, only as Thomas finished, "Come," he commanded, and motioning him to the green wagon, he climbed in, and seated himself again on his bags.
"I'm goin' to stop a minute an' tell Betsey to put us up a few things, an' while she's doin' it, I'll hitch into the sleigh. I took the wagon to mill, as 'twas poor draggin' along one piece o' bare ground—an' then, says I, we'll be off for them youngsters of yours."
Thomas gave a long breath of relief—and the wagon rolled on in silence till it came to a stop before a large red house.