“Why, Ready,” he said, faintly, “have you come?”

“Come home,” said the dog’s eyes, speaking out what the whole day had tried to say:  “they’re waiting for you; they’ve been waiting always; home’s there, and love’s there, and the good God’s there, and it’s Christmas day.  Come home!”

Yarrow struggled up, and put his arms about the dog’s neck:  kissed him with all the hunger for love smothered in these many years.

“He don’t know I’m a thief,” he thought.

Ready bit angrily at coat and trousers.

“Be a man, and come home.”

Yarrow understood.  He caught his breath, as he went along, holding by the fence now and then.

“It’s the chance!” he said.  “And Martha!  It’s Martha and the little chaps!”

But he was not sure.  He was yet so near to the place where it would have been forever too late.  If Ready saw that with his wary eye, turned now and then, as he trotted before,—­if he had any terror in his dumb soul, (or whatever you choose to call it,) or any mad joy, or desire to go clean daft with rollicking in the snow at what he had done, he put it off to another season, and kept a stern face on his captive.  But Yarrow watched it; it was the first home-face of them all.

“Be a man,” it said.  “Let the thief go.  Home’s before you, and love, and years of hard work for the God you did not know.”

So they went on together.  They came at last to the house,—­home.  He grew blind then, and stopped at the gate; but the dog went slower, and waited for him to follow, pushed the door open softly, and, when he went in, laid down in his old place, and put his paws over his face.

When Martha Yarrow heard the step at last, she got up.  But seeing how it was with him, she only put her arms quietly about his neck, and said,—­

“I’ve waited so long, my husband!”

That was all.

He lay in his old bed that evening; he made her open the door, feeling strong enough to look at them now, Jem and Tom and Catty, in the warm, well-lighted room, with all its little Christmas gayeties.  They had known many happy holidays, but none like this:  coming in on tiptoe to look at the white, sad face on the pillow, and to say, under their breath, “It’s father.”  They had waited so long for him.  When he heard them, the closed eyes always opened anxiously, and looked at them:  kind eyes, full of a more tender, wishful love than even mother’s.  They came in only now and then, but Martha he would not let go from him, held her hand all day.  Ready had made his way up on the bed and lay over his feet.

“That’s right, old Truepenny!” he said.

They laughed at that:  he had not forgotten the old name.  When Martha looked at the old yellow dog, she felt her eyes fill with tears.

“God did not want a messenger,” she thought:  as if He ever did!

That evening, while he lay with her head on his breast, as she sat by the bed, he watched the boys a long time.