Bellefonte, Pa., January 28, 1910. 1 HIS HOME-COMING. It was the hour of noon. A tall, sal- low faced man sat on the barnyard wall, gazing over his rocky fields with slow, speculative eyes. fle had finish- ed his dinner and was now waiting for the help. Every few minutes he glanced im- patiently toward the door of the long back kitchen. At last he muttered something under his breath and slid heavily from the wall At the same moment he saw a boy approaching. “Does Mrs. Carter live here?’ the boy asked briskly as he paused in front of the man. “She's stayin’ here just now,” was the answer. “1 guess you'll find her in the house.” The boy walked on past the barnyard and up the clam shelled lined path to the front door of the old farmhouse. “js Mis. Carter in?" he asked of the little old woman who opened the door. “Round in the kitchen, eatin’ her dinner,” was the mumbling answer. “Men folks eat fust here. Who be ye?" But the boy had already left the step and was on his way round to the kitchen. The door was partly open, and he could see a long table, around which were seated a dozen or more old wo- wen and children. He knocked gently and repeated his question. A sweet faced old woman rose and came to the door. “I am Mrs. Carter,” she said pleas- antly. “What do you wish?’ But the boy could not answer. He felt all those curious eyes upon him, and there was a lump in his throat and a terror of something he could not understand. “l—1 wish to see you,” he stam- mered at length, “Very well Suppose we go into the sitting room We can talk better there.” He followed her through the long kitchen into a big square room that was scantily furnished. The old wom- an motioned him to a chair by the window where the light rested full upon his face. “Now,” she began, then stopped, and a strange look came into her eyes. “Who are vou?" she asked In a troubled voice. “1 am getting old and do not remember as | used to. But | have seen vou somewhere.” He rose from the chair “No, you Lave never seen me before,” he replied. “but folks used to say that 1 looked like father. I am John Car ter. Why don't you welcome me, grandmother?” She trembled and gazed at him ea- gerly. ‘ “John's boy—come home!” she said vaguely. Then a flush came into her faded cheeks and a glad light into her eves. “And has—has John come?” she asked. “My father died last fall.” The boy's volce was very calm, but in it was a depth of pain which he strove vainly to couceal. “His last wish was for me to come home. He said there had been some misunderstanding between him and Uncle Richard, but that his death would make it all right and that 1 would be welcome. Is Uncle Richard here?” “Richard died many years ago. He told me the whole story and wanted John's forgiveness, Poor Richard: Poor John!” In the dim old eyes was a freshen- ing of the old pain, and the boy saw it, and his own face grew wistful and sympathetic. “Dear grandmother!” he said softly The old worn smiled apd ried to rouse herself “You and | are all there is left,” she sald. “We will not speak of the quar rel any more They have made it ap before this © Then she took his strong young hand hetween her two wrin kled and stroked it tenderly “How did vou tind me, Jacky” she asked. using the pet name she had given his father many years before. “A man on the road told me that you lived in the big house by the pound It was easy to tind” “And did you come all the way from Mexico slone?” “Yee: | am used to traveling, 1 did not mind it much, except for its being lonely 1 missed father. We- we were almost always together The brave eves held back their tears, but she vould feel his Land tremble in her grasp. A cheap clock on the shelf began to strike