“Is there any one with him except your grandmother?” asked Mr. Livingstone; and Lena replied, “Aunt Nancy Scovandyke has been with us a few days, and is there now.”

At the sound of that name John started, coloring so deeply that ’Lena observed it, and asked “if he knew Miss Scovandyke?”

“I used to,” said he, while ’Lena continued:  “She’s a nice woman, and though she ain’t any connection, I call her aunt.  Granny thinks a sight of her.”

Miss Scovandyke was evidently an unpleasant topic for Mr. Livingstone, and changing the subject, he said, “What makes you say Granny, child?”

’Lena blushed painfully.  ’Twas the first word she had ever uttered, her grandmother having taught it to her, and encouraged her in its use.  Besides that, ’Lena had a great horror of anything which she fancied was at all “stuck up,” and thinking an entire change from Granny to Grandmother would be altogether too much, she still persisted in occasionally using her favorite word, in spite of the ridicule it frequently called forth from her school companions.  Thinking to herself that it was none of her uncle’s business what she called her grandmother, she made no reply, and in a few moments they came in sight of the yellow farmhouse, which looked to Mr. Livingstone just as it did when he left it, eighteen years before.  There was the tall poplar, with its green leaves rustling in the breeze, just as they had done years ago, when from a distant hill-top he looked back to catch the last glimpse of his home.  The well in the rear was the same—­the lilac bushes in front—­the tansy patch on the right and the gable-roofed barn on the left; all were there; nothing was changed but himself.

Mechanically he followed ’Lena into the yard, half expecting to see bleaching upon the grass the same web of home-made cloth, which he remembered had lain there when he went away.  One thing alone seemed strange.  The blue paper curtains were rolled away from the “spare room” windows, which were open as if to admit as much air as possible.

“I shouldn’t wonder if grandpa was worse,” said ’Lena, hurrying him along and ushering him at once into the sick-room.

At first Mrs. Nichols did not observe him, for she was bending tenderly over the white, wrinkled face, which lay upon the small, scanty pillow.  John thought “how small and scanty they were,” while he almost shuddered at the sound of his footsteps upon the uncarpeted floor.  Everything was dreary and comfortless, and his conscience reproached him that his old father should die so poor, when he counted his money by thousands.

As he passed the window his tall figure obscured the fading daylight, causing his mother to raise her head, and in a moment her long, bony arms were twined around his neck.  The cruel letter, his long neglect, were all forgotten in the joy of once more beholding her “darling boy,” whose bearded cheek she kissed again and again.  John was unused to such demonstrations of affection, except, indeed, from his little golden-haired Anna, who was refined and polished, and all that, which made a vast difference, as he thought.  Still, he returned his mother’s greeting with a tolerably good grace, managing, however, to tear himself from her as soon as possible.