An old house cat that lay by the stove looked at her gravely, closed
her eyes an instant as if for reflection, and leaped into her lap.
Anything--the fall of a straw would have set Mary Fuller to crying
then, and she burst into a passion of tears, rocking herself back
and forth and moaning out--

"He will not come--it is almost dark now--he will not come. Oh, dear,
how can I wait--how can I wait!"

As she moaned thus, the cat leaped from her lap and walked into the
garret, stood a moment at the head of the stairs, and came back again
looking at his little mistress wistfully through the door.

Mary started up. Surely, that was his step! No! there was no firmness
in it. Whoever mounted those stairs, moved with a staggering, unsteady
walk, like that of a drunken person.

Mary turned very pale and hardly breathed.

"Oh, if it should be mother," she thought, casting a startled look
back into the little room, "staggering, too!" and trembling with
affright, she stole softly to the top of the stairs and looked down.

A gush of welcome broke from her lips. She held out her arms,
descending rapidly to meet him.

"Father! oh, my blessed, blessed father!"

They came up slowly, the deathly pale man leaning partly on his stick,
partly on the shoulder of the child, whose frame shivered with joy