The children had grown eager for him to come.  The younger ones talked of the presents he would bring them, while George thought of a book, yet dared hardly hope to receive one.  At last, Emma descried her father far down the road, and announced, in a loud voice, his coming.  The heart of the mother throbbed quicker at the word.  She went to the window, where the children crowded, feeling troubled, and yet with something of the old gladness about her heart.  She strained her eyes to see him, and yet dreaded to fix them upon him too intently, lest more should be seen than she wished to see.  He came nearer and nearer, and she was yet at the window, her heart beating audibly.  Could her eyes deceive her, or was it indeed so?  His form was erect and his step firm, and, though his clothes were the same, they did not look so untidy.

“Thank God!” she ejaculated silently, yet fervently, as he came nearer still—­“he is sober.”

Yes, he was sober.

“Henry!” she could not say another word, as she took his hand when he came in.  Her eyes were full of tears.  He pressed her thin, small, labour-worn hand tightly, and then turned and sat down.  He, too, was moved as well as she.  But the children gathered around him, and seemed gladder to see him than when he was last home.  There was a reason for this.  Seeing the hand of George in a sling, he inquired the cause, and when told of the accident, appeared deeply grieved, and said he should not go back to the mill any more.  The heart of his wife fluttered.  Was there a meaning deeper than a momentary impulse?  At last little Hetty, who had climbed upon his knee, said, “Where’s my New Year’s gift, papa?”

The father put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small picture-book, and gave it to the child who was wild with joy in a moment.  He had a larger book for Emma, and Robinson Crusoe for George.

“And what for mother?” asked Emma, looking earnestly at her father.  “Haven’t you brought dear mother a New Year’s gift, too?”

“Oh, yes,” replied the father, “I’ve got something for her also.”  His voice was a little unsteady as he said this.  Then he put his hand into his pocket again, and, after keeping it there for a moment or two, drew out a large folded piece of paper that looked like a title-deed, and handed it to his wife, who took it with a trembling hand.  She opened it, read a few words, and, bursting into tears, turned and went quickly from the room.  Hers were tears of joy—­unutterable joy.

Was it then a title-deed of property that her husband had given her, filling her heart with gladness at the thought of relief from toil, and privation, and suffering?  No, it was better than that, and brought a fuller and more perfect joy.  It was a New Year’s gift such as she had never dared hope to receive—­the dearest gift in the power of her husband to bestow.  Already blotted with tears, it was tightly pressed to her heaving bosom.