“Meadow Brook¹ Station! Stop five minutes for refreshments²!” shouted the conductor, and alighting from the noisy, crowded cars, I stood once more in my own native town, gazing with a feeling of delight upon the sunny hills, dotted over with the old-fashioned gable-roofed houses, and upon the green, grassy³ meadow, through which rolled the blue waters of the Chicopee. I had not stood thus long, when a broad hand was laid upon my shoulder, and the next instant my arms were around the neck of my father, who, I thought, had changed much since last I saw him; for his face was thin and pale, while threads of silver were scattered⁴ through his soft, brown hair.

 

It was the loss of Anna, I fancied; and when we at last were seated in the buggy, and on our way home, I hastened to speak of her, and to tell him of the favorable report we heard of Herbert. But naught⁵ which I said seemed to rouse him; and at last I, too, fell into the same thoughtful mood, in which even old Sorrel shared, for he moved with his head down, scarcely once leaving the slow, measured walk he had first assumed. When, at last, we reached the hill-top, from which could be seen the Homestead, with its maple⁶ trees in front, and long row of apple trees, now in full bloom, in the 175rear, I started up, exclaiming, “Home, sweet home! It never looked half so beautiful to me before.”

 

In a moment, however, I checked myself; for my father groaned⁷ aloud, while his face grew whiter than before.

 

“What is it, father,” I asked; “are they sick, or dead?”

 

“Neither, neither,” he replied, at the same time chirruping to old Sorrel, who pricked⁸ up his ears, and soon carried us to the door of our house, where I was warmly greeted by all.

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