ever 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.

"Martha," he said, at last, "you said that they should never know. Did
you keep your word?"

"I kept it, Stephen."

He was quiet a long while after that, and then he said,--

"Some day I will tell them. It's all clearer to me now. If ever I find
the good God, I'll teach Him to my boys out of my own life. They'll not
love me less."

He did not talk much that day; even to her he could not say that which
was in his heart; but it seemed to him there was One who heard and
understood,--looking out, after all was quiet that night,