is father; how little way that heart
of love could reach, when once he had set out on the cold
journey of life. He had set out now, and he felt alone, --
alone; -- his best company was the remembrance of that
whispered blessing; and that, he knew, would abide with him.
If the heart could have coined the treasure it sent back, his
mother would have been poor no more.

He did not sit down, nor stop, nor shed a tear. It would have
gone hard with him if he had been obliged to speak to anybody;
but there was nobody to speak to. Few were abroad, at that
late season and unlovely time. Comfort had probably retreated
to the barns and farmhouses -- to the _homesteads_, -- for it was
a desolate road that he travelled; the very wagons and horses
that he met were going home, or would be. It was a long road,
and mile after mile was plodded over, and evening began to say
there was nothing so dark it might not be darker. No Asphodel
yet.

It was by the lights that he saw it at length and guessed he
was near the end of his journey. It took some plodding then to
reach it. Then a few inquiries brought him where he might see
Mr. Glanbally.

It was a corner house, flush upon the road, bare as a poverty
of boards could make it, and brown with the weather. In the
twilight he could see that. Winthrop thought nothing of it; he
was used to it; his own house at home was brown and bare; but
alas! this looked very little like his own house at home.
There wasn't penthouse enough to keep the rain from the
knocker. He knocked.

"Is Mr. Glanbally at home?"

"Yes -- I 'spect he is -- he come in from school half an hour
ago. You go in there, and I guess you'll find him."

'There,' indicated a door at right angles with the front and
about a yard behind it. The woman opened the door, and left
Winthrop to shut it for himself.

In a bare room, at a bare table, by an ill-to-do dip candle,
sat Mr. Glanbally and his book. The book on the table, and Mr.
Glanbally's face on the book, as near as possible; and both as
near as possible under the candle. Reason enough for that,
when the very blaze of a candle looked so little like giving
light. Was that why Mr. Glanbally's eyes almost touched the
letters? Winthrop wondered he could see them at all; but
probably he did, for he did not look up to see anything else.
He had taken the opening and shutting of the door to be by
some wonted hand. Winthrop stood still a minute. There was
nothing remarkable about