had any answer. So now he is going to walk to Cincinnati to see
him. He knows he will not be turned away if he can once meet his
son, face to face. He was very tired when he stopped here,--and he
has ever and ever so far to walk yet, you know,--and so after I had
given him something to eat, I let him lie down in the outer
kitchen, on that roll of rag-carpet that is there. I spread it out
for him. It is a hard bed for one who has known comfort, but he
seems to sleep soundly."

"Let me see him," said I, and I walked back to the outer kitchen.

There lay the unsuccessful broker fast asleep. His face, which was
turned toward me as I entered, showed that it had been many days
since he had been shaved, and his hair had apparently been uncombed
for about the same length of time. His clothes were very old, and
a good deal torn, and he wore one boot and one shoe.

"Whew!" said I. "Have you been giving him whisky?"

"No," whispered Euphemia, "of course not. I noticed that smell,
and he said he had been cleaning his clothes with alcohol."

"They needed it, I'm sure," I remarked as I turned away. "And
now," said I, "where's the girl?"

"This is her afternoon out. What is the matter? You look
frightened."

"Oh, I'm not frightened, but I find I must go down to the station
again. Just run up and put on your bonnet. It will be a nice