Both Roger and his father urged Ben and Jerry to come home with them for dinner, but the older brother declined, saying that they had many things to talk over between them. Already Ben had found that Jerry was disinclined to answer his eager questions in the presence of the strangers, and he was consumed with curiosity to know what singular chance had brought the blind boy thither.

When the automobile stopped in front of the house, Jimmy Jones, his eyes big with wonderment, peered forth through the darkness and saw the two boys alight and the little dog hop out after them. Then good nights were called, the big car swung slowly round and rolled away, and Jimmy came hopping forth, palpitant to know about the game.

“Did you play, Ben—did you play?” he asked. “Who won?”

“We did, and I played, Jimmy.”

“Oh, good! I wish I could ‘a’ been there to see it. Mother she’s kept some hot bread for you and some coffee. She said you’d be hungry.”

“That’s right,” confirmed Mrs. Jones, her ample figure appearing in the doorway. “You’re young and strong, and I don’t b’lieve hot bread will do no damage to your dejesshun. Joel, my late departed, he was a master hand for hot bread and presarves. We had baked beans for supper, an’ I’ve left the pot in the oven, so they’re piping hot. Joel, he used to eat about four heapin’ plates of beans, an’ then he’d complain because every little morsel he put into his stummick disagreed with him. Who’s that with ye?”

“This is my brother, Mrs. Jones—my brother Jerry. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, and he’s been walking far to-day, so he’s very tired. Step up, Jerry.”

Ben grasped the little chap’s arm and guided him as the steps were mounted. In an aside he whispered for the ear of Mrs. Jones, “He’s blind.”

“Land sakes!” breathed the good woman, putting up both hands. “Come right in and set down to the table. Mamie, she’s gone out somewhere, an’ Sadie’s having one of her chills. Don’t stumble on the doorstool. Right this way.”

Gently but firmly she swept them into the room, where the table still sat with the white cloth and some dishes upon it. Jerry clung to the line, and now the little dog followed at his heels.

“This is a surprise,” said the widow, as she hastened to place another plate and another chair. “Y’u never told me about your brother, Ben; fact is, y’u never told me much about y’urself, nohow. I s’pose y’u’ll want to wash up. There’s the sink an’ soap an’ water an’ a clean towel. Did y’u come all the way from Clearport in Mr. Eliot’s automobile? My goodness! that must ‘a’ been grand. I don’t cal’late I’ll ever have no opportunity to ride in one of them things, an’ I guess I’d be scat to death if I did, ’cause they go so fast. Don’t it ’most take a body’s breath away?”

“Not quite as bad as that,” answered Ben, smiling; “but it’s splendid, and I enjoyed it.”

“So did I,” said Jerry. “It ’most felt like I was kind of flying through the air. I hope I ain’t making nobody a lot of trouble, coming so unexpected this way.”

“Trouble!” beamed Mrs. Jones. “My gracious! I should say not! Why, Ben he’s gittin’ to be ’most like one of my fambly, though sometimes it’s hard work makin’ him come down to eat with us when I ax him. I ain’t like some folks, thank goodness, that’s put out and upsot over every little thing that happens; an’ if I’d been so, livin’ so many years with an ailing husband, they’d had me dead an’ buried long before him. I never can endure folks that’s always complaining about the hard time they have to get along, when there’s so much to enjoy in this world an’ so much to be thankful for. Every time I git sorter billious and downcast an’ dejec’ed I look ’round till I find somebody that’s wuss off than I be, an’ then I take holt an’ try to give them a lift, an’ that cheers me up an’ makes me feel thankful an’ content with my lot.”

As she talked she brought forth the beans and poured them, steaming, upon a huge platter. Hot bread, fresh butter and a dish of preserves were likewise placed on that table, after which the coffee was poured.

“Now,” said the widow, “I want to see y’u two youngsters make a hole in the vittles.”

“I think we can,” laughed Ben. “I know I’m mighty hungry, and I expect Jerry is, too.”

Jerry was hungry, indeed; really, the little fellow was almost starved, and it was with no small difficulty that he repressed the eager desire to gulp his food. Watching him, the widow understood, and covertly, even while she talked in the same cheerful, optimistic strain, she wiped her eyes more than once with the corner of her apron. There was something about these two boys that appealed to her big, motherly heart, and the thought that the thin, weary-looking little chap was doomed never to enjoy the precious privilege of sight gave her a feeling of regret and sorrow that she found difficult to disguise.

“You see,” said Ben suddenly, thinking it courteous and necessary to make some explanation—“you understand, Mrs. Jones, that if I’d known Jerry was coming I’d told you about it. He gave me a regular surprise. I hope you won’t mind if he stops with me to-night, for there’s plenty of room, and——”

“Land sakes! what be y’u talkin’ about, Ben?” interrupted the widow protestingly. “Mind—’course I don’t mind! I’m glad he’s come. I’m glad y’u have got some comp’ny to cheer y’u up, for sometimes y’u do sort of seem to need it, an’ I know I can’t just fill the bill; for old folks never do jibe in proper an’ sympathetic with young folks. Then I’m so busy I don’t have the time to look arter y’u the way I’d like to.”

“You’ve been very good indeed to me, Mrs. Jones—almost like a mother,” returned Ben. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

“Now don’t talk that way. Goodness gracious! ain’t y’u fussed ’round amusin’ Jimmy, a-fixin’ squirrel traps an’ swings an’ things for him? That’s more’n squared any little thing I could do for y’u to make y’u comf’table.”

“Look!” cried Jimmy. “The little dog is hungry. See him begging. He’s hungry, mom. Can’t I feed him?”

Pilot was sitting on his haunches, his forward paws drooping as he turned his head to look from one to another beseechingly.

“’Course y’u can feed him,” said the widow quickly. “I sorter forgot about him. Lemme look, an’ I’ll see if I’ve got a bone in the pantry.”

She found some bones and scraps, which she brought forth on a plate, and Jimmy, begging the privilege, was permitted to feed Pilot, who expressed his appreciation by a sharp bark and such frantic wagging of his tail that his whole body was shaken from side to side all the way to his forward shoulders.

When supper was over, to satisfy Jimmy, Ben was compelled to tell about the football game, and this he did with such modesty that the listeners, who had not witnessed the contest, were given no inkling as to how conspicuously he had figured in it. He was even fair and generous enough to accord Hayden all the credit the fellow deserved.

At the first mention of Bern’s name the blind lad uttered a cry of astonishment and alarm, reaching out a trembling hand to touch his brother.

“Ben! Ben!” he exclaimed. “It’s not Bern Hayden who—who used to live in Hilton—not that fellow?”

“Yes, Jerry, it’s the same fellow. He lives here in Oakdale now.”

“But, Ben, he—why, you know what he did. You know——”

“I’m not likely to forget it, Jerry.”

“He hates you.”

“There’s not an atom of love lost between us,” was the grim retort.

“He made you go away from Hilton.”

“And he tried to drive me out of Oakdale, but he failed in that, Jerry. He came mighty near it, it’s true, and only for the good friends I made here he would have succeeded. His old father even went to Prof. Richardson, at the academy, and tried to poison his mind.”

“Oh, I’m afraid of them, Ben! I know Bern Hayden would do anything to hurt you—anything.”

“You needn’t be afraid. Roger Eliot is my friend; his father is, too, and Mr. Eliot has fully as much strength and influence in Oakdale as Lemuel Hayden.”

“That’s right,” confirmed Mrs. Jones, “and he’s lived here lots longer. Everybody knows Urian Eliot ’round these parts; an’, even if he is a rich man and rather tight and close in business dealin’s, they do say he’s honest an’ just. ’Course he’s got his enemies, same’s anybody has; but even the wust on ’em can’t point out no crooked thing he’s ever done.”

Nevertheless, it was no easy matter to calm and reassure the agitated blind boy. Presently, after they had talked for a time, Mrs. Jones lighted a small hand-lamp and gave it to Ben, saying:

“I won’t keep y’u up no longer, for I know y’u must be tired an’ want to go to bed—anyhow, I’m dead sartain your brother is plumb pegged out. But to-morrer is the day of rest, an’ y’u can sleep jest as late as y’u want to.”

Good nights were said, and the brothers mounted the narrow back stairs, Ben assisting Jerry while the little dog scrambled up behind them. When at last they were in the privacy of Ben’s room, he questioned Jerry.

“I didn’t want to ask too many things before people,” he said, “because I thought perhaps there might be something you wouldn’t care to answer; but I don’t understand how it was that I found you, tired and worn out, tramping to Oakdale. How did Uncle Asher happen to let you leave his home?”

“Uncle Asher is dead,” said Jerry.