A curious expression had come to Jane's
face.
"Some one--has to," she said at last, quietly.
Jane went down to the village the next afternoon, leaving her sister in
charge at home. When she returned, an hour later, Mary met her at the
gate, crying and wringing her hands.
"Jane, Jane, I thought you would never come! I can't do a thing with
him. He insists that he isn't at home, and that he wants to go there. I
told him, over and over again, that he
was at home already, but
it didn't do a bit of good. I've had a perfectly awful time."
"Yes, I know. Where is he?"
"In the kitchen. I--I tied him. He just would go, and I couldn't hold
him."
"Oh,
Mary!" And Jane fairly flew up the walk to the kitchen door.
A minute later she appeared, leading an old man, who was whimpering
pitifully.
"Home, Jane. I want ter go home."
"Yes, dear, I know. We'll go." And Mary watched with wondering eyes
while the two walked down the path, through the gate and across the
street to the next corner, then slowly crossed again and came back
through the familiar doorway.
"Home!" chuckled the old man gleefully.
"We've come home!"
Mary went back to Boston the next day. She said it was fortunate,
indeed, that Jane's nerves were so strong.
Pages:
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94