The man arose. "Sir," he said, "I feel that I have truly found a
friend. Whatever may happen to me, I shall never forget your kindness to
a very stranger." He held out his hand, and I stood up by him and took
it. It was as much a flesh and blood hand as my own.

"What is your name?" I asked. "You have not yet told me that."

"I am Amos Kilbright, of Bixbury," he answered.

"You have not revisited your native place?" I said.

"No," he replied, "I much desire to do so, but I have no money for a
journey, even on foot, and I doubt me much if those men would suffer me
to go to Bixbury."

"And have you spoken to your grandson, old Mr. Scott?" I said. "It is
but right that you should make yourself known to him."

"So have I thought," he answered, "and I have felt an earnest drawing
toward my daughter's child. I have seen him thrice, but have not had the
heart to speak to him and declare myself the progenitor of that mother
whose memory I know he cherishes."

"You shall make yourself known to him," I said. "I will prepare the
way."

He shook me again by the hand and took his leave without a word. He was
deeply affected.

I reseated myself by my table, one thought after another rushing through