He saw the lights of the village, and, finding the road, managed to keep
on it until he reached the horse, that had become uneasy under the
premonitory tumult of the storm. Lifting Benedict into the wagon as if
he had been a child, he wrapped him warmly, and put the boy in behind
him, to kneel and see that his father did not fall out. Then he turned
the horse around, and started toward Number Nine. The horse knew the
road, and was furnished with keener vision than the man who drove him.
Jim was aware of this, and letting the reins lie loose upon his back,
the animal struck into a long, swinging trot, in prospect of home and
another "pail iv oats."

They had not gone a mile when the gathering tempest came down upon them.
It rained in torrents, the lightning illuminated the whole region again
and again, and the thunder cracked, and boomed, and rolled off among the
woods and hills, as if the day of doom had come.

The war of the elements harmonized strangely with the weird fancies of
the weak man who sat at Jim's side. He rode in perfect silence for
miles. At last the wind went down, and the rain settled to a steady
fall.

"They were pretty angry about my going," said he, feebly.

"Yes," said Jim, "they behaved purty car'less, but I'm too many for
'em."

"Does Father Abraham know I'm coming?" inquired Benedict. "Does he
expect me to-night?"

"Yes," responded Jim, "an' he'd 'a' sent afore, but he's jest wore out