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The journey left the old man very weak indeed, but he talked almost constantly.

“It was so good of you, Abby, to take the little girl home,” he would say. “But I knowed you had a good heart, and Ben too. He was fond of his old father, spite of his rough ways. It was pooty lonesome–pooty lonesome, off there at that place–that Institute where you sent me. Some folks said it was the Poor House, but I knew better–I knew better. Ben and you would never send me there. I s’pose it was a good place, but they had too many patients. Sometimes I was cold and hungry and all alone for hours and hours. Oh, it’s good to be back home with you–you, Abby–but why don’t Ben come?”

“Ben is away, father.”

“Oh, yes, yes. Business, I suppose. Ben’ll turn out all right at last. I always thought so. After he sort o’ outgrows ‘Liz’beth’s trainin’. But I hope he’ll get back for Christmas. Somehow I’ve been thinkin’ lately ’bout the Christmas days when Ben was a little boy. We allus put something in his stockin’ that night, no matter if twan’t no more’n a sweet cake. Sakes alive! how he prized things he found in his stockin’ Christmas mornin’s! I got to thinkin’ ’bout it all last Christmas out at that there Institute, and I just laid an’ bawled like a baby, I was so home-sick like. Seemed to me if I could just see Ben’s face again, I’d ask nothin’ more of Heaven. And now I think if I can just hear his voice again, it’ll be enough. Do you think he’ll git home for Christmas, Abby?”

“I hope so, dear father, but I cannot tell.” Edith answered softly, her heart seeming to break in her breast as she listened.

She knew very well that Ben would not go across the street to see the father he had deserted, and that she could never send for him to come to her house, to pay even a last visit of mercy.

“What will I do–how can I explain to him, when Christmas comes and Ben does not appear?” she thought.

But the way was shown her by that great Peace-Maker who helps us out of all difficulties at last.

Christmas Eve, the old man’s constant chatter grew flighty and incoherent. He talked of people and things unknown to Edith, and spoke his mother’s name many times. Then he fell asleep. In the morning he seemed very weak, and his voice was fainter.

“Such a strange dream as I have had, ‘Lis’beth,” he said, as Edith put her hand on his brow, and smoothed back the thin, white hair.

“Such a strange dream, I thought Ben had grown into a man, and had left me alone–all alone to die. I’m so glad to be awake and find it isn’t true. How dark it is, and how long the night seems! To-morrow is Christmas. Did you put something in Ben’s stockings, ‘Lis’beth? I have forgotten.”

“Yes,” answered Edith, in a choked voice.

“And it’s gettin’ colder, ‘Lis’beth. Hadn’t you better look after Ben a little? See if he’s covered up well in his crib. You’re so careless, ‘Lis’beth, the boy’ll take his death o’ cold yet. And he’s all I’ve got. He’ll make a fine man, a fine man if you don’t spoil him, ‘Lis’beth. But you hain’t no real sense for trainin’ a boy, somehow. Is he covered up? It’s bitter, bitter cold.”

“He is well covered,” Edith answered. The old man seemed to doze again. Then he roused a little.

“It’s dawn,” he said. “I see the light breaking. Little Ben’ll be crawling out for his stockin’ pooty quick: I oughter had the fire made afore this, to warm his little toes. Strange you couldn’t a’ waked me, ‘Liz’beth! You don’t never seem to have no foresight.”

Then the old man fell back on Edith’s arm, dead.