"It would be safer for you, Sophia, for burglars don't shoot women."

"Much you know about it, Silas."

The two moved toward the kitchen door, Silas handling the gun as if he
were afraid of it. They listened with painful attention, and presently
heard the sound of voices, though they could not make out what was being
said.

"The boy's speakin' to him!" said Silas, awe-struck. "I never see such a
terrible time. I wish I'd told Bert to tell the burglar to go back the
same way he came, and we wouldn't fire at him. I don't want to be too
hard on the transgressor. Mebbe he's driven to his evil ways by
destitution."

Mrs. Wilson paid very little attention to what her husband was saying,
being more intent on what was passing upstairs.

After a short interval Bert came down.

"Well?" said Silas eagerly. "Did you see the burglar?"

"Yes."

"Where is he?"

"In my room."

"What is he doin' there?"

"He is lying on the bed."

"Well, if I ever saw such impudence!" ejaculated Mrs. Wilson.

"Has he got a gun with him? Did he offer to shoot you?"

"No," answered Bert gravely. "The poor fellow is sick."

"Poor fellow, indeed!" sniffed Mrs. Wilson. "What does he mean by
getting into a respectable house through a window? He'll end up his days
in jail."

"Does--does he look desperate?" inquired Silas Wilson. "Would he be
likely to hurt me or Mis' Wilson?"

"No; he says he would like to have you come up."

"Well, of all things!" ejaculated Sophia.

"I've got something to tell you," went on Bert, turning from one to the
other. "He wants me to tell you before you go up. It is some one whom
you both know, though you haven't seen him for a good many years."

Silas did not understand, but a mother's instincts were quicker.

"Is it our son--Phineas?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Bert; "it is your son."

"Who stole fifty dollars from his father, and crept away like a thief in
the night!" exclaimed the farmer indignantly.

"He has suffered, and is very weak," rejoined Bert. "He hadn't had
anything to eat for twenty-four hours, and I may as well tell you that
it was I who came downstairs in the night and took up the bread and milk
to him."

"You did quite right," said Mrs. Wilson, who was half-way upstairs by
this time. He was her own son in spite of all, and though she was not an
emotional woman, she yearned to see the face of her only child, with a
mother's feelings all aroused within her.

"He took fifty dollars