mill. He crouched down, and heard their voices as they went by, but they

sounded strange to him. He followed now in their wake, and saw them turn in another direction. Then he saw a man approaching, but he walked from side to side of the pavement, as if he were intoxicated, and Walton avoided him by crossing the street and pursuing his way on the other side.

At last he was at his old home. The grounds were the same in size, but the old house had been repainted, and trees which had been small and slender were now large and dense. There was a heartless alteration in the appearance of it all. The white paint on the house somehow made it seem a veritable ghost of its former self; its whole aspect was cold and forbidding. He opened the gate and entered. He was not afraid, for as a boy he had gone into the grounds at any hour he liked; he had even raised an unfastened window in the old dining-room, when he had mislaid his key, and climbed in long after midnight.

There was a light in his father's room on the ground floor, but the blind was drawn down. Fred could not look in from where he stood, so he crept up close to the wall, and moved noiselessly along against it till he could peer through the crack between the window-sill and the blind. He started back, for in the light of the green-shaded lamp he saw his father seated at a table reading a paper. How strange it seemed to see him after all those years! And yet the banker had changed very little. It was the same harsh, imperturbable face. In it lay no sign of concern over the absence of the son who now loved him with a woman's tenderness.

“Poor, poor father!” the young man said, in his heart. “I never understood you. I didn't know what life meant then as I do now. You are living according to your lights. It was I who was wrong--wofully wrong. God help me!”

With a low groan he crept away. Out into the street he went. He must hurry now, for his time was limited. There must be no mistake about the train. He must not let his employer suspect this stolen excursion of his, for it would mar the pleasure of the old man's journey.

Fred now met and had to avoid few passers-by, and he hurried on to Margaret's home, thankful that it lay in the direction of the waiting train. The great structure was wholly dark, and there was no sign of life about it. That was her window; he could plainly see it as he stood at the fence. But what, after all, could it matter to him? Perhaps she had not occupied the room for years. His heart seemed turned to stone as the new fear sank into him that she might have married and moved away. She had loved him once; he was as sure of that as he was of her honesty. Yes, she had loved him! She had told him so with her arms tightly clasped about his neck. His shameful conduct had separated them--that and nothing else. With his head lowered he turned away, wholly indifferent now as to whether he was seen or not.

Almost before he realized it the wrecked freight-cars were before him; the track was being rapidly cleared; the headlight of the train that was to bear him away was streaming on him with insistent fierceness.

“How long will you keep us waiting?” he asked the foreman of the gang, who, in greased and blackened overalls, stood near an overturned truck.

“Only an hour or so longer. It is past one now,” was the reply.

The Pullman was dimly lighted from the overhead lamps which were turned low, but the outer door was open, and, passing the porter half asleep in the smoking-room, Fred went to his berth, drew the curtains aside, and began to undress.

“Is that you, Fred?” a low, anxious voice inquired, and Whipple thrust his shaggy head out from his berth.

“Yes, sir. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Whipple?”

“No; that is--” The curtains slowly parted, and the old man came out, completely dressed, save for the absence of his coat, collar, and cravat. He looked around cautiously, and seemed relieved to find that they were the only passengers awake. He sank into a seat opposite Fred's berth and sighed. “I've been awfully worried,” he said. “You see, my boy, I missed you. I waited and waited and couldn't sleep a wink, and the longer you stayed away the worse I got. You see, I have my clothes on. I got up, and went out to the wreck, and tried to find you. I don't know what got into me. I was worried--worried like rips.”

“I felt restless and--went for a walk,” Walton explained, lamely. “I didn't know it was so late; besides, I thought you'd be sound asleep and not miss me.”

“I reckon I'm old and childish,” Whipple said, with a forced laugh. “The fact is, Fred, if the truth must be told, I reckon I feel powerful close to you. I didn't know the thing had taken such a deep hold on me. I reckon it is this trip with just you and me off together like two boys. I've got so I think I can detect when you are happy and when you ain't over your old trouble, and ever since morning I sort o' fancied you looked uneasy and downhearted. Then when you went off, leaving me away out here all by myself, why, somehow, I was afraid--actually afraid that--”

“You were afraid that in my despondency I might injure myself,” Fred broke in; “but you needn't ever--”

“I wasn't afraid of any such thing!” Whipple threw in, almost indignantly. “I knew there was no such danger when you had fought the fight you have for six years hand-running, and got as high up as you have; but I was a little afraid--well, to be honest--I was afraid you might have seen somebody on the train who you wanted to avoid on account of matters long past and buried, and that you thought it might be advisable to--to keep out of sight, that's all.”

“It wasn't that, Mr. Whipple, I assure you,” Walton answered, in a husky voice, and he sat down opposite his friend and laid his hands firmly on the old man's knees. “The time has come, Mr. Whipple, when I must tell you more about my past life. After I have done so, you will fully understand how I--”

“No, no, I won't listen!” Whipple raised his hands in protest. “I don't want to hear a word. It wrings my silly old heart, anyway, to think of what may lie away back there before you come to me. You seem to be a son of my own, born to me in your terrible trouble, and I want to think of you that way. I thought, at first, that it would be a pretty thing to let you pay back the debt hanging over you with just your own earnings; but I don't think so now. That amount of money would be nothing to me, and you know it. You've seen me donate more than that to causes that didn't interest me one-hundredth part as much as this does. My boy, when we get to New York I'll draw the money, and you must take it and clear yourself. I'll never rest till you do.”

“I can't do that, Mr. Whipple,” Walton said, in a grateful tone. “When I left home I told my father the money should be replaced by my own earnings, and it must be that way.”

“You can't keep me from raising your salary if I see fit and proper,” Whipple argued. “You are the best man I ever employed from any standpoint, and you don't draw pay enough--not half enough.”

“I can't let you do it,” Walton said, with a grateful smile. “I am already paid more than any other man in my position. To give me more would be charity, and I don't want that. I want to pay my way out, Mr. Whipple.”

“Well, you'll do it,” the old man gave in, fervently.

“If you was to be hampered now, my brave boy, I'd actually lose faith in God and the hereafter. I honestly believe you'll get your reward, and be reinstated in all you ever wanted. Now, good-night. Sleep sound, and let's not allow this to spoil our good time. I reckon this trip has sort o' turned your thoughts onto bygone days, but we'll have other things to think of in New York. Good-night, my son, good-night.”

“Good-night, sir.”

The heavy curtains hid the portly old man, and Walton proceeded to undress and lie down. But he could not sleep. What human being with a normal heart could have done so under like circumstances? An hour later the dull, rumbling movement of the car told him that they were off. There was no stop at the station, but Walton propped himself upon his elbow and raised the little window-shade and peered out as they passed through the switch-yard of the town. On the platform a night-watchman stood swinging a lantern. In the rapidly shifting glare of light Fred recognized him. It was Dan Smith, a faithful negro who used to work about the bank and whom Fred had known from childhood up.

“Poor old Uncle Dan!” the outcast said, bitterly, as the kindly features were spirited away in the distance.' “You know why 'Marse Freddie' had to leave, don't you? It was because he was a thief, Uncle Dan. The little fellow you used to carry on your shoulders and be so proud of grew up to be a thief--a _thief_, and he is hiding now from you and all the rest!”