And he kissed her again, with a strange feeling of the unreality of everything human.

The servants were flocking out by this time.  His mother’s arms were outstretched in welcome.  There was something like a sob in Tom’s throat as he felt them clasped about his neck.

“My dear, dear boy—­my only son!  Thank God that you have come safely through all threatened perils, and have come home to us again!”

Tom held her close in his arms.  He would not speak a word to dash from her those fond hopes which she so plainly cherished.  He would not speak of the peril overshadowing him, which might at any moment become imminent.

“It is good to be home, mother!” he said, and kissed her many times.

The servants raised a cheer for the young Squire.  Tom turned and smiled at them, and spoke a few words of thanks.  How familiar it all was!  How had he ever despised the love of the people round him, and of those two faithful women who loved him so truly and so well?

“Dear mother,” he said tenderly, “you are so much better to me than ever I deserve; I will try to live to be a comfort to you some day.  I have given you little but sorrow and pain as yet.”

“Nay, Tom, you have served your country, and that should satisfy a mother’s pride.  Come in, my son, and tell us your adventures.  You have seen foreign lands and fine folks since last we met.  Come and tell us all about it, as you rest and refresh yourself from your journey.”

So Tom gave one last look round at the eager faces grouped about the door, and turned into the great hall with a smile and a sigh.  It was very like a dream, this eager welcome, and these familiar sights and sounds.  The sense of insecurity which hung over him made everything seem unreal, and yet in one way dearer to him than ever before.

“Yes, this is home!” he said to himself, as be turned to follow his mother; “my travels are ended.  I have come home.  Whatever may betide in the future, I am safe at home now!”

If any reader desire to know the sequel to Tom Tufton’s story, and how he took toll on the king’s highway, that story shall be told another day.  For the present his travels had terminated, and he was beneath his own roof tree—­a sadder and a wiser man than he had sallied forth.

The end.