Home again!  Even Tip Pulsifer was dear to me then.  He was between the wheels when we stopped, and I planted a crutch on one of his bare feet and embraced him.

He grinned and cried, “Mighty souls!”

That embrace, that grin and that heart-born exclamation marked the entrance of the Pulsifer family into my life.  Theretofore I had regarded them with a suspicion born of a pile of feathers at the door of their shanty on the ridge, for they kept no chickens.  Now the six little Pulsifers, all with the lower halves of their faces washed and their hair soaped down, were climbing around me, and the latest comer, that same Cevery who arrived with Piney Martin’s spring-bed, was hoisted into kissing distance by his mother, who was thinner and more wan than ever, but still smiling.  But this was home and these were home people.  My heart was open then and warm, and I took the seven little Pulsifers to it.  I took old Mrs. Bolum to it, too, for she tumbled the clamoring infants aside and in her joy forgot the ruffles in the sleeves of her wonderful purple silk.  At her elbow hovered the tall, spare figure of Aaron Kallaberger.  Mindful of the military nature of the occasion he appeared in his old army overcoat, in spite of the heat.  Rare honor, this!  And better still, he hailed me as “Comrade,” and enfolding my hand in his long horny fingers, cried “All’s well, Mark!”

The mill ceased its rumbling.  Already the valley was rocking itself to sleep.  Out of the darkening sky rang the twanging call of a night-hawk, and the cluck of a dozing hen sounded from the foliage overhead.  A flock of weary sheep pattered along the road, barnward bound, heavy eyed and bleating softly.  The blue gate was opened wide.  My hand was on Tim’s shoulder and Tim’s arm was my support.

“All’s well!” I cried.  For I was hobbling home.

II

Perry Thomas still had his speech to deliver.  He hovered around the rocking-chair in which they had enthroned me, and with one hand he kept clutching violently at his throat as though he were suppressing his eloquence by muscular effort.  His repeated coughing seemed a constant warning that at any moment he might be vanquished in the struggle for becoming silence.  There was a longing light in his eyes and a look of appeal whenever our glances met.  My position was embarrassing.  He knew that I realized his predicament, but how could I interrupt the kindly demonstrations of the old friends who pressed about me, to announce that the local orator had a formal address of welcome that was as yet unspoken?  And an opportunity like this might never again occur in Perry’s life!  Here were gathered not only the people of the village, but of the valley.  His words would fall not alone on the ears of a few choice spirits of the store forum, or the scoffing pedants of the literary society, for crowded into that little room were old men whose years would give