A hearty breakfast, consisting of beefsteak, potatoes, corn bread, fresh butter and apple sauce, made Abner’s eyes glisten, for he had never in his remembrance sat down at home to a meal equally attractive.  He wielded his knife and fork with an activity and energy which indicated thorough enjoyment.  Even Herbert, though in the city his appetite had been delicate, and he had already eaten part of a loaf of bread, did excellent justice to the good things set before him.  He was himself surprised at his extraordinary appetite, forgetting the stimulating effect of a seven-mile walk.

After breakfast they set out again on their tramp.  At sunset, having rested several hours in the middle of the day, they had accomplished twenty miles.  Abner could have gone further, but Herbert was well tired out.  They obtained permission from a friendly farmer to spend the night in his barn, and retired at half-past seven.  Mr. Reynolds would have been shocked had he known that his little son was compelled to sleep on a pile of hay, but it may truthfully be said that Herbert had seldom slept as soundly or felt more refreshed.

“How did you sleep, Abner?” he asked.

“Like a top.  How was it with you, bub?”

“I didn’t wake up all night,” answered the little boy.

“I wonder what dad and marm thought when they found us gone?” said Abner, with a grin.

“Won’t they feel bad?”

“Not much,” said Abner.  “They ain’t that kind.  I reckon it won’t spoil their appetite.”

When they descended from the haymow, the farmer was milking his cows.

“Well, youngsters,” he said, “so you’re up and dressed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ready for breakfast, I’ll be bound.”

“I reckon I should feel better for eatin’,” said Abner, promptly.

“Jest you wait till I get through milkin’, and we’ll see what Mrs. Wiggins has got for us.”

Abner heard these words with joy, for he was always possessed of a good appetite.

“I say, bub, I’m glad I run away,” he remarked, aside, to Herbert.  “We live enough sight better than we did at home.”

Leaving the boys to pursue their journey, we will return to the bereaved parents, and inquire how they bore their loss.

When Mrs. Barton rose to commence the labors of the day, she found that no wood was on hand for the kitchen fire.

“Abner’s gittin’ lazier and lazier,” she soliloquized.  “I’ll soon have him up.”

She went to the foot of the stairs, and called “Abner!” in a voice by no means low or gentle.

There was no answer.

“That boy would sleep if there was an earthquake,” she muttered.  “Come down here and split some wood, you lazy boy!” she cried, still louder.

Again no answer.

“He hears, fast enough, but he don’t want to work.  I’ll soon have him down.”

She ascended the stairs, two steps at a time, and opened the door of her son’s room.