"O father! my dear father!" and I drew him in, holding fast his
hands--faster and closer than I had done since I was a child. He did
not repel me.

"Thee'rt up early, and it's a cold morning for thee, my son. Go back
to the fire."

His voice was gentle; his ruddy countenance pale; two strange things
in Abel Fletcher.

"Father, tell me what has befallen thee?"

"Nothing, my son, save that the Giver of all worldly goods has seen
fit to take back a portion of mine. I, like many another in this
town, am poorer by some thousands than I went to bed last night."

He sat down. I knew he loved his money, for it had been hardly
earned. I had not thought he would have borne its loss so quietly.

"Father, never mind; it might have been worse."

"Of a surety. I should have lost everything I had in the world--save
for--Where is the lad? What art thee standing outside for? Come in,
John, and shut the door."

John obeyed, though without advancing. He was cold and wet. I
wanted him to sit down by the fireside.

"Ay! do, lad," said my father, kindly.