IT WAS TEN o’clock in the evening. Tillie was fast asleep, but her mother, by the light of a small lamp, was engaged in sewing in her little sitting-room.

Her face was grave and sad. Her hope of seeing Tom again in life was fast growing fainter and fainter. He was her only boy, and she had lost him. She would never again see his bright face, or hear his cheerful voice through the long and weary years that probably awaited her.

Beside this loss pecuniary cares were of secondary importance, but they troubled her at this hour. If, as John Simpson said, the house and lot, her only property, would scarcely bring six hundred dollars, that would not last long, and how was she to get along? If only she had Tom’s strong arm to rest upon, he would find something to do, and would not let his mother want.

The five dollars had now dwindled away. But fifty cents were left, and she could not get sewing enough to do to defray even their small expenses.

That very afternoon she had sent Tillie to the house of John Simpson, asking him to call the coming day. She had made up her mind to accept his offer, and either mortgage the place for four hundred dollars or sell it outright for six hundred, if he would give it.

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She reckoned that two hundred dollars a year, in addition to what she could earn, would support them; and thus three years would be provided for. During that time Tom might come back. She would not give him up yet.

The outlook was sad enough, and it was no wonder that Mrs. Thatcher looked pale and sad, yet she was on the threshold of a great joy, though she knew it not.

At length, about half-past ten, she rose from her sewing and prepared to go to bed.

At that very minute she heard a knock at her door.

“Who can be coming here at this hour?” she thought, with alarm.

Not long before a tramp had entered a house in the village during the night, and it occurred to her that this might be the same man or one of his confederates. She was alone and defenseless, and naturally she felt nervous.

“Who is there?” she asked, in a tremulous voice.

“It’s I, mother.”

There was something in that voice which sent a thrill through her veins, and wakened a glad hope in her heart.

No hesitating now! Hurriedly she opened the door, and uttered a glad cry of surprise as Tom entered.

“Oh, my boy, my boy! I thought I should never see you again!” she cried, as she clasped him to her bosom.

“A bad penny always turns up again,” said Tom, merrily.

Then Mrs. Thatcher had a chance to look at the boy from whom she had been separated for a year.

246 “You have grown taller, Tom,” she said.

“Yes, mother, I am at least two inches taller.”

Then she examined his clothes. They were well worn; in fact, they were shabby. It was clear that Tom had not been successful. But what of that? She had him back, and that was better than all.

“Well, Tom,” she said, “you didn’t find it pay going to California?”

Tom smiled.

“I am glad I went, though I did have a hard time getting there.”

“Why didn’t you write?”

“On the plains there were no post-offices, or scarcely any. Then, again, I was captured by the Indians, and kept a prisoner for three months.”

Mrs. Thatcher uttered a little cry.

“Oh, Tom! if I had known that I should have died of anxiety.”

“Then it’s well you didn’t know, mother.”

“How did you happen to come here instead of to Mr. Bacon’s?”

“I heard that he was dead. How have you got along, mother? Have you been pressed............