money to pay Eric's passage to Bergen, and one from
Clara, saying that Nils had a place for Eric in the offices of his
company, that he was to live with them, and that they were only waiting
for him to come. He was to leave New York on one of the boats of Nils'
own line; the captain was one of their friends, and Eric was to make
himself known at once.

Nils' directions were so explicit that a baby could have followed them,
Eric felt. And here he was, nearing Red Oak, Iowa, and rocking backward
and forward in despair. Never had he loved his brother so much, and
never had the big world called to him so hard. But there was a lump in
his throat which would not go down. Ever since nightfall he had been
tormented by the thought of his mother, alone in that big house that
had sent forth so many men. Her unkindness now seemed so little, and her
loneliness so great. He remembered everything she had ever done for him:
how frightened she had been when he tore his hand in the corn-sheller,
and how she wouldn't let Olaf scold him. When Nils went away he didn't
leave his mother all alone, or he would never have gone. Eric felt sure
of that.

The train whistled. The conductor came in, smiling not unkindly.
"Well, young man, what are you going to do? We stop at Red Oak in three
minutes."

"Yes, thank you. I'll let you know." The conductor went out, and the boy
doubled up with misery. He couldn't let his one chance go like this.
He felt for his breast pocket and crackled Nils' letter to give him
courage. He didn't want Nils to be ashamed of him. The train stopped.
Suddenly he remembered his brother's kind, twinkling eyes, that always
looked at you as if from far away. The lump in his throat softened. "Ah,
but Nils, Nils would _understand_!" he thought. "That's just it about
Nils; he always understands."

A lank, pale boy with a canvas telescope stumbled off the train to the
Red Oak siding, just as the conductor called, "All aboard!"

The next night Mrs. Ericson was sitting alone in her wooden
rocking-chair on the front porch. Little Hilda had been sent to bed and
had cried herself to sleep. The old woman's knitting was on her lap, but
her hands lay motionless on top of it. For more than an hour she had not
moved a muscle. She simply sat, as only the Ericsons and the mountains
can sit. The house was dark, and there was no sound but the croaking of
the frogs down in the pond of the little pasture.

Eric did not come home by the roa