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“I didn’t tell her my plan; but I resigned my place, spent a week or more finding and fixing a little home for her out in the wholesome country, where she’d be safe from theatres and disreputable friends, and maybe learn to love me better when she saw how much she was to me. It was coming summer, and I made things look as home-like and as pretty as I could. She liked flowers, and I fixed a garden for her; she was fond of pets, and I got her a bird, a kitten, and a dog to play with her; she fancied gay colors and tasty little matters, so I filled her rooms with all the handsome things I could afford, and when it was done, I was as pleased as any boy, thinking what happy times we’d have together and how pleased she’d be. Boys, when I went to tell her and to take her to her little home, she was gone.”

“Who with?”

“With those cursed friends of her; a party of them left the city just then; she was wild to go; she had money now, and all her good looks back again. They teased and tempted her; I wasn’t there to keep her, and she went, leaving a line behind to tell me that she loved the old life more than the new; that my house was a prison, and she hoped I’d let her go in peace. That almost killed me; but I managed to bear it, for I knew most of the fault was mine; but it was awful bitter to think I hadn’t saved her, after all.”

“Oh, Thorn! what did you do?”

“Went straight after her; found her dancing in Philadelphia, with paint on her cheeks, trinkets on her neck and arms, looking prettier than ever; but the innocent eyes were gone, and I couldn’t see my little girl in the bold, handsome woman twirling there before the footlights. She saw me, looked scared at first, then smiled, and danced on with her eyes upon me, as if she said,–

“‘See! I’m happy now; go away and let me be.’

“I couldn’t stand that, and got out somehow. People thought me mad, or drunk; I didn’t care, I only wanted to see her once in quiet and try to get her home. I couldn’t do it then nor afterwards by fair means, and I wouldn’t try force. I wrote to her, promised to forgive her, begged her to come back, or let me keep her honestly somewhere away from me. But she never answered, never came, and I have never tried again.”

“She wasn’t worthy of you, Thorn; you jest forgit her.”

“I wish I could! I wish I could!” In his voice quivered an almost passionate regret, and a great sob heaved his chest, as he turned his face away to hide the love and longing, still so tender and so strong.

“Don’t say that, Dick; such fidelity should make us charitable for its own sake. There is always time for penitence, always certainty of pardon. Take heart, Thorn, you may not wait in vain, and she may yet return to you.”

“I know she will! I’ve dreamed of it, I’ve prayed for it; every battle I come out of safe makes me surer that I was kept for that, and when I’ve borne enough to atone for my part of the fault, I’ll be repaid for all my patience, all my pain, by finding her again. She knows how well I love her still, and if there comes a time when she is sick and poor and all alone again, then she’ll remember her old John, then she’ll come home and let me take her in.”

Hope shone in Thorn’s melancholy eyes, and long-suffering, all-forgiving love beautified the rough, brown face, as he folded his arms and bent his gray head on his breast, as if the wanderer were already come.