Joe’s errand to the stable on the morning when he went away was not what his sister Jennie supposed. He went there only to say farewell to the horse that had been his friend and companion since he was a little child. He loved “Old Charlie,” and could not go away without caressing him and saying good-by.

The great gray horse, wakened by the opening of the stable door, rose clumsily to his feet, and stared, a little frightened, across his manger toward the visitor who came so early.

“Hello, Charlie!” said Joe, softly, feeling his way forward in the darkness of the stable, and laying his hand on the horse’s forehead. “I’m going away, Charlie; I thought I’d come and say good-by to you.”

He had talked to the horse in this way, as to a human being, ever since he could remember. To him there was nothing absurd in it. Charlie, recognizing his young master, pushed his nose forward and rubbed it against Joe’s breast.

“I’m going away,” repeated the boy, “an’ it isn’t likely we’ll ever see each other again.”

He leaned over the manger, pulled the horse’s head down to his breast, and laid his cheek against it for a moment. Then he went out at the stable door, shut and latched it, hurried across the barnyard and out upon the grassy expanse at the side of the highway.

At the turn in the road Joe looked back. He could see the white front of the old homestead showing dimly against the dark shadows where night lingered. It looked so serene, so quiet, so comfortable!

He brushed away the tears that started to his eyes, choked down the sob that rose in his throat, and turning once more, walked rapidly away toward the east. Almost before Joe had turned into the road from the bars, a man crept cautiously from the shadows behind the barn, and advanced to the stable door. He was short and thickly built, and very bow-legged.

“Close call for me, that there was,” he said to himself. “Another minute, an’ I’d ’a’ been inside o’ that there stable door, an’ ’e’d ’a’ come plump onto me; that’s w’at ’e’d ’a’ done. Queer thing, anyway. W’y didn’t ’e take the ’oss, I want to know, an’ not be scarin’ honest folk out o’ their seving senses that way for nothink?”

The man unlatched the stable door, opened it noiselessly, and went in.

It was not many minutes before he came out again, leading Old Charlie, and stroking him in order to keep him quiet.

The horse was bridled, and a blanket was strapped over his back in lieu of a saddle. The animal was evidently suspicious and frightened, and moved about nervously, snorting a little, and with ears pricked up and eyes wide open. Once he snorted so loudly that the bow-legged man, glancing uneasily toward the farmhouse, made haste to close the stable door and lead the horse to the bars, where he could more readily mount him.

“Nothing venture, nothing ’ave,” he said, as he leaped clumsily to the beast’s back. Then, having walked the horse for a few rods, he struck Charlie with his hand, and rode away rapidly in the direction which Joe had taken.

Very soon, however, he turned the horse’s head into a grassy cart-road leading into the woods which he had carefully explored the previous day. This he followed—Old Charlie’s smooth-shod feet leaving no track on the turf—until it brought him out upon a little-travelled highway about a mile distant.

Here the thief cut a sharp little stick from a tree, and urging Old Charlie to a rapid gait, galloped on ten miles or more, until daylight had fully broken. Then he took refuge once more in the woods, and breakfasted out of a little bag of plunder which he had brought from the Gaston farm.

“A good start, Callipers, me boy,” he said to himself. “You mind your bloomin’ eye an’ you’re all right. It don’t do to lose your ’ead an’ go too fast, or go too fast an’ lose your ’ead.”

In the mean time, back at the farm the cattle had begun to stir about in the barnyard with the lifting of the night shadows. It was broad daylight before the hired man went up through the gate with two gleaming tin pails in his hands. Smoke rose from the chimney of the farmhouse kitchen; the household was astir.

Every one was about but Joe. His mother had not yet called him. She thought to let him sleep a little later than usual. Yesterday had been such a bitter day for him!

“Where’s Joe?” asked Mr. Gaston, coming into the kitchen. “Isn’t he up yet?”

“No,” replied the mother. “He wasn’t feeling very well last night, and I thought I wouldn’t call him till breakfast was all ready.”

“Mother,” said the farmer, “I’m afraid you’re indulging the boy in lazy habits. He oughtn’t to be left in bed later just because he misbehaved yesterday.”

“Well,” she said, “he was really feeling almost sick last night.”

Little Jennie, whose eyes were red from weeping, and whose face was pale with anxiety, listened timidly to the conversation, and then stole softly from the room.

What would happen when it was found that Joe had gone? What would happen when it was found that he had taken Old Charlie? This was the burden of her thought and fear.

Whatever it might be, she knew she had not the courage to face it, so she crept away to hide herself and to weep out her grief.

“If Joe was sick last night,” the farmer went on, “it was just because he was disobedient and had to be whipped. I hope he’s in a better frame of mind this morning. It is very painful for me to punish him. I wish I might—”

The outside door opened, and the hired man entered, interrupting Mr. Gaston’s speech. He seemed to be troubled and excited.

“Have you had Charlie out this morning, Mr. Gaston?” he asked.

“Charlie? What Charlie?”

“Why, Charlie the horse. He isn’t in the stable.”

“Not in the stable?”

“No, sir. An’ I can’t find him nowheres. The bridle’s gone, too, an’ the blanket an’ the surcingle.”

“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Gaston, dropping the toast on the hearth in her excitement.

“Who put him up last night?” asked the farmer.

“I did,” replied the hired man.

“Did you tie him fast?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And shut the stable door?”

“Yes, sir; but I asked Joe to water him after he’d had his feed. Joe often does that, you know.”

“Call Joe!” the farmer said sharply to his wife.

Mrs. Gaston hurried upstairs to the door of Joe’s room.

She knocked, but there was no answer. She called, but no one responded. Then she opened the door and entered.

The bed was vacant. She looked into the closet, behind the trunk, under the bed; but no boy was to be found.

The truth suddenly forced itself into Mrs. Gaston’s mind. Joe had gone—run away!—left his home and her! She grew suddenly weak, and sat down upon the bed till her strength should return to her.

Joe gone? She could hardly believe it. How could her only boy leave her? How could she live without him?

It occurred to her that he could not yet have gone far, and that he might be found and brought back before it was too late. She hurried from the room, flew down the stairs, and burst into the dining-room.

“Go after him!” she exclaimed. “Send for him quick, before any harm comes to him! He’s gone—he’s run away, he’s—”

“Who’s gone?” questioned Mr. Gaston, dazed by his wife’s words and manner. “What is the matter with everybody this morning?”

“Joe! Joe’s gone! Follow him, Father, do, and bring him back! Take Charlie and follow him at once. He can’t be far! Take Charlie and—Oh! Charlie’s gone, too—they’ve gone, they’ve gone—”

“Together!” said Mr. Gaston, sinking into a chair, and staring across the table at his wife, who was already seated and silent, dumb with the revelation of what appeared to be both mystery and crime.

The hired man, after witnessing for a moment the agony apparent on the faces of both father and mother, opened the door softly and went out.

Mrs. Gaston was the first to recover her voice.

“Father,” she said, “do you think Joe took the horse?”

“It looks very much like it,” he said. “They’re both gone.”

“Yes; but they may not have gone together, after all. Or if they have gone together, perhaps Joe had some errand that we don’t know about, and will come back soon. Maybe he hasn’t gone at all, but is somewhere about the place now. Don’t let’s accuse him before we know!”

“You are right; we’ll find the proof first.”

Mr. Gaston went to the door and called the hired man.

“Ralph,” he said, “don’t say anything for the present about this. We think some mistake has been made. But you may just make a quiet search for the horse around the farm and the neighborhood, and let me know if you find any trace of him.

“Now,” he continued, turning back into the house, “we will search for evidence. Let us go first to Joe’s room and see what we can find there.”

Together the father and mother mounted the stairs to the little east room, and looked about.

On a stand in the corner Mrs. Gaston discovered something that, in her former hurried search, had escaped her notice. It was a note in Joe’s handwriting, written carefully in pencil, and it read as follows:

She read the note, handed it to her husband, and, sinking into a chair, burst into tears.

When Mr. Gaston had read it he went to the open window and stood for many minutes, looking away, thoughtfully and sternly, to the distant hills.

“Father,” sobbed his wife, “you will go after Joe, won’t you? You’ll find him, and bring him back, won’t you?”

It seemed to her a long time before he answered her.

“I believe,” he said at last, “that when a boy runs away from a good home, it is better, as a rule, to let him go, and find out his mistake; he’s sure to find it out in a very short time. If he is followed and threatened and forced, he will come back sullen and angry, and will make up his mind to go again at the first chance.”

“But if he’s followed and reasoned with and persuaded?” said the mother, appealingly.

“If he is followed and reasoned with and persuaded,” answered the father, “he will get a great notion of his own importance. He will believe that he has gained his point, and will come back impudent and overbearing.”

“But think what harm may come to him,—what suffering!”

“Probably he will suffer. There’s no easy way to learn the lesson he must learn. If I could save him from the suffering that his folly is sure to bring on him, and at the same time feel sure that he has really repented and is bound to do better, I would go to the end of the earth to find him. But we’ll talk about that later. There’s no doubt now that Joe’s gone. Let us see if we can find out anything about the horse. It will make a difference if he has taken him.”

But the good woman could not yet give up her appeal in behalf of her boy.

“You won’t be too harsh with him, Father? You won’t allow him to suffer too much? If he don’t come back soon, you’ll go and find him, won’t you,—if he don’t come back by the end of next week? He isn’t strong, you know, and he’s so sensitive. And I can’t think he intended to do anything wrong; I can’t think it! I will not believe it!”

They were passing through the upper hall to the head of the staircase. When they came near to the dark closet that opened on the landing, they were startled by the strange noise that proceeded from behind the door,—a noise as of some one sobbing.

Mr. Gaston threw open the closet door and peered into the darkness, while his wife stood behind him, half-frightened, looking over his shoulder.

“Why!” he exclaimed, when his eyes had adapted themselves to the inner gloom, “it’s Jennie!”

“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Gaston, in another fright.

“Jennie,” said Mr. Gaston, sternly, “come right out. What does this mean?”

Poor Jennie, her eyes red with weeping and with anguish written all over her tear-marked face, rose from her seat on an old chest, and came into the light of the hall.

She began to sob again as though her heart would break.

“What does this mean?” repeated her father.

“N—nothing,” sobbed Jennie, “only I—I—”

“See here!” exclaimed her father, “did you know that Joe had gone away?”

“I—I was afraid he had.”

“Did you know he intended to go?” asked her father, sternly.

“Why, he—he told me yesterday that he—was—”

“Going to run away?”

“Ye—yes.”

“O Jennie!” exclaimed her mother, “why didn’t you tell us as soon as you knew it, so that we might stop him?”

“He made—made me promise not to! I couldn’t help it.”

Little by little, in answer to repeated questions, the narration broken by many sobs, the child gave the story of the previous day’s interview with Joe.

“Jennie,” said Mr. Gaston, finally, “have you seen Joe this morning? Answer me truly.”

“Ye—yes, Father.”

“Where?”

“Here, in the hall.”

“At what hour?”

“I don’t—don’t know. It was before daylight. He was just starting. I bade him good-by, and went back into my room, and he went on downstairs.”

Jennie was lavish of her information this time. The questions were getting dangerously near a point she dreaded, and she hoped there would be no more of them.

Alas! The very next question shook the foundation of her guilty knowledge of Joe’s apparent crime.

“Jennie,” asked her father, “did you see Joe this morning after he left the house?”

“Yes, Father; I looked out o’ the window, an’ saw him go down the path.”

“Which way did he go when he got to the road?” asked her mother, eagerly.

“He—he went off that way,” replied Jennie, faintly, “east.”

“He went east, Father!” exclaimed Mrs. Gaston,—“east toward the mountains, not west toward the river. It will be easier to find him, you know. And he didn’t take the horse; you see he didn’t take Charlie!”

“Wait,” said Mr. Gaston, sternly. “Jennie, tell us the whole story. Do you mean to say that you saw Joe go down the path and out at the gate, and walk away toward the east?”

Half-unconsciously she made a final attempt to save Joe.

“No, Father, he turned around and came back up the path toward the house.”

The mother asked no more questions. She instinctively felt that her worst fears were about to be realized.

“Did he come back into the house?” asked the father, mercilessly.

“N—no.”

“Where did he go?”

There was no way out of it. Jennie must tell what she had seen.

“O Father!” she cried, “he came back—and then—he went into the stable.”

“Did you see him come out?”

“No, oh, no! But I saw him ride out through the bars on Old Charlie, and away up the road. I did, I saw him. O Joe! Oh, dear me! Oh, I wish—I wish—I was dead!”

The little girl fell to wringing her hands and sobbing again with great violence, convinced that she had been the victim of unhappy circumstances, and that she had been a traitor to Joe, whom she loved dearly.

Mrs. Gaston, drawing the child to her, sat on the stair-landing and said nothing; but sorrow and sympathy, struggling for the mastery in her heart, sent the bitter tears afresh to her eyes.

Over the face of Joe’s father came a look that had not been there before.

“I shall not follow him, Mother,” he said. “He may have the horse, but he must not come back here until he comes in sackcloth and ashes. I am sorry that I have lived to see the day when a son of mine has come to be little better than a common thief.”

The father had passed down the stairs and out at the door, while mother and daughter sat long together, mingling their tears over the unhappy fate of the boy whom both had idolized, and whose strange folly had made him, to all intents and purposes, an exile from his home.