“I do want to go, sir; I would give the world almost to see her—­but—­”

“Well?”

“The expense, sir,” Tom ventured to say, encouraged by his kind friend’s manner.  “It is a long journey, and I have cost you so much already.”

“Nonsense; I am a rich man, Tom.  But for all that I expect you to pay me back some day.  You and I will have a great reckoning by-and-by.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“How did you know I wanted to go home, Mr. Keane?” said Tom by-and-by.

“I have eyes, my boy,” was all Mr. Keane answered, saying nothing of a note he had received from his sister, which ran thus:—­

“RED HOUSE, April 27th.

“DEAR ROBERT,—­Send Tom to Thankful Rest for a few days.  Lucy will get well twice as fast after she sees him.—­Your affectionate sister,

“ALICE.”

Next morning saw a very happy boy take his place in the train, which would land him at Pendlepoint in the evening.  It was a long, tiresome journey, especially to an impatient being like Tom.  But it came to an end, as all things pleasant or unpleasant must, and he found himself at the little old-fashioned depot towards seven o’clock at night.  There was no one to meet him, of course, because no one, not even Miss Keane, expected him so soon.  He ran all the way to the parsonage, and knocked at the door, only to find Abbie in sole possession.

“The parson he be down town, Master Tom,” she said, “and Miss Carrie she be at Thankful Rest.  I guess she’s there most days till night.”

Tom thanked her and ran off again across the bridge and through the meadow, not even pausing to look at the cattle, nor to see that Sally was enjoying an unwonted holiday, and a dainty bite at the tender young grass, which the mild weather had brought forward very fast.  He paused just a moment outside the orchard fence, and looked at the house, not a little surprised to feel how glad he was to see it again, and how dear it was to him after all.  Then he pushed open the gate, went up the path and over the garden fence, and saw Uncle Josh digging the potato patch.

“Halloo, Uncle Josh!” he shouted, feeling quite jovial and free towards him; and Uncle Josh started up and let his spade fall from his hands.

“Marcy, younker, whar did ye come from?” was all he could utter.  But, no longer the surly man that he had been, he held out his hand to him, and looked more than pleased to see him.

“I came from Philadelphia to see Lucy,” answered Tom soberly.  “How is she?”

“Oh, gettin’ along fast; she’s in the far parlour these two days, able to sit up till ’most night.  I guess she won’t be sot up to see ye—­oh no, not at all.”

There was a twinkle in Uncle Josh’s eye, a thing Tom had never seen before.  Surely there was a change at Thankful Rest.