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some of the thoughts which naturally enough had been harassing John Adams all through his day's journey; and they had become heavier and more depressing as he became more and more weary. He was hungry, too; for though he had a little money in his pocket, he had no food, nor had he eaten any since taking his last meal in prison. Why had he not bought food on his journey? it may be asked. Simply because he had been ashamed to show his face; for the fear haunted him that every one who saw him would instinctively know who and what he was; and he could not bear to be pointed at as a recent convict. He would rather be hungry than run the risk of this reproach.

He was not expected at home that day. Indeed, he had had a month's punishment remitted for some reason or other, and he had not known till that same morning that his imprisonment was at an end. Consequently his wife knew nothing of it.

And how would she receive him? To be sure, she had written some nice pleasant letters to him while he was in prison, and had been several times to see him. Indeed, he could not understand all she had written and said in these letters and short interviews, only that she seemed to be putting the best face she could upon things at home. But may be she would be in a different mood now. And if she should be, it would only serve him right. For he had been a queer sort of a husband to her, and a queer sort of father to the children; and that was the truth of it. And where it was to end he couldn't tell, and it was no use thinking. And thus, throwing off his morbid thoughts and fancies as well as he could, John Adams hastily rose from the bank on which he had been seated, and renewed his homeward

course.

It was almost dark when he reached the village. Here and there a light glimmered through cottage casements, but they did not glimmer for the weary sojourner. A brighter, ruddier light shone out upon the road from the window of the Red Lion tap-room. It had been a snare to John Adams, in bygone years, that Red Lion; for he had there spent many shillings, many pounds, probably, on self-indulgence, which might have shed comfort on his home; and he had passed many an evening hour there which ought to have been passed with his family. He knew this, and had had some reproachful thoughts about it during his imprisonment, and had even made a sort of vow

to himself that when he got home again he would avoid the Red Lion at all events. But he did not know how it would be. He reckoned that if his home were as uncomfortable as it had sometimes, and often, been in old times (and why should it be different?), he should be driven out of his good resolutions. Thus, tormenting himself with these doleful anticipations, poor Adams went on more slowly now that he was so near home, for he more and more dreaded the scene of want and distress which would meet him there.

He met no one in the village, for the evening was dark, and the road way deserted. This was a comfort, at any rate. Presently he reached his cottage. There he stood for a moment or two, with a palpitating heart, almost afraid to venture a step nearer to the closed door.

There was a light in the room below-a rather cheerful, glowing light, the poor man thought-a flickering light, like that of a blazing fire. He tried to see what was going on inside; but a rather thick window-curtain intervened, and he was thwarted in this attempt. But he heard

voices.

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John Adams could bear the suspense no longer. I may as well know the worst or the best," he said to himself, and he gently opened the unbolted door.

There was no time for him to see what was going on; no time to note the various items of the scene of misery which he had been picturing to himself in his dreary walk. He had not advanced three steps when he was encircled with his wife's arms.

"John-John-dear John!" was all she could utter in her first outbreak of surprise and gladness.

"I am come back, you see, Sarah," said he, huskily. And then followed more exclamations, and a general rush of the little ones to their father's arms, and some explanations of how it was that he was home a month sooner than was expected. And all this time John Adams almost forgot that he was a returned and liberated prisoner-quite forgot his weariness as a traveller.

In a few minutes he was seated by his fireside (it was a cheerful fire that was burning on the hearth), with a child on each knee, and the others clustered around him. His wife was busily engaged in preparing the meal he so much needed, and John Adams had time to look round.

It was a strange contrast to that which he remembered

of his former home, and to that which he had expected to find. It was the same place, doubtless, but with a difference. There was little furniture-he knew every bit of it; but over the whole was cast an air of comfort which was very new to him. The floor was cleanly swept, and the walls were newly whitewashed; the children, too, though poorly enough clothed, were not in rags and dirt. But the greatest change of all was in his wife. John Adams could not make it out. He could only sit and wonder, as she moved to and fro. It was not till he had eaten and was refreshed, and the children were put to bed, that he found time to talk much, and then he scarcely knew what to say.

"You are glad to see me home again, Sarah, I think.

You seem so.

"Glad! I should think so, John," said Sarah, smiling through her tears. "Why, what can you be thinking of to ask me such a thing?"

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Well, I don't know, Sarah: being come back like a bad penny-a disgraced man like-I thought, perhaps― leastwise, I have been thinking, but not since I came inthat you mightn't be over and above pleased."

"John !"

"I don't say so now, Sarah, for I see you are glad-more glad, may be, than I deserve you should be; for it isn't much that I have ever done to make you care so very much what became of me," the poor husband went on, in tones almost of despondency.

"John, don't talk so-please don't!" said the wife, earnestly; "don't say a word about anything of the sort. Or if the words must be spoken, let us both make up our minds to be more to one another than we ever have been. That will be the best way for us both, won't it, dear John ?"

John did not know but what it would; but he must needs say something more.

"You seem more comfortable like-you and the young ones too-than I expected to find you, Sarah."

"Do we, John ?"

"Yes. You don't know how it has troubled me all day, as I was coming along, in thinking that you must all have been half-starved by this time."

"We don't look like it, then, dear John," rejoined Sarah, with a bright look of pleasure.

"No, you don't look like it, any of you, and that's the truth. And, bless you, Sarah, you seem now more like what you were when I first knew you, a dozen years ago, than ever I remember."

Sarah Adams brightened up still more, though tears began to moisten her eyes.

"Didn't I write to you, John, again and again, that I was doing as well as could be expected?-that I had got needlework to do, which helped out the parish allowance, and that you wasn't to be troubled about our getting along till you came home?"

"Yes; but I didn't know but what you wrote it and said it to keep up my spirits. And may be now, Sarah, you don't like to tell me the worst. I reckon there will be a few debts for me to rub off, if I can," he added, rather uneasily.

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"Not for rent till Saturday night, and then one week will be due; but the money is all ready."

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You used to run up a score at the baker's sometimes, Sarah. It was my fault, I know; for if I didn't earn money, and bring it home, you could not spend it. But are you sure there isn't a score standing at the baker's

now ?"

Quite sure, John; nor yet at the shop, nor anywhere else," said the wife.

"And you all look so clean and comfortable, and nice and hearty," said wondering John Adams.

And now let us You have had a bear to think of

"I am glad you think so, dear John. talk about something else, shall we? terrible punishment, John; and I can't your having been shut up in jail two whole years."

"It was all my luck, Sarah," the husband replied, gloomily. "I always have the worst of it, somehow. If the gamekeeper did get hurt, it wasn't I that hurt him; but I was caught, and so it all fell to my share."

"Then if I were in your place, dear John," said the wife, persuasively, "I wouldn't get in the way of gamekeepers again. You never got any good by poaching-did

you, now ?"

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Yes, it is all very well for anybody to say, 'Do this, John,' and 'Don't do that, John;' but it isn't quite so easy to do or not do," rejoined the husband, still more gloomily

than before. "Look here, Sarah; here I am come home, like a bad penny, as I said; and something I must do; and who is going to employ a fellow just out of jail?at this time of year, too, when work is scarce enough for everybody."

"Don't meet troubles half way, John-please don't," returned Sarah. "I haven't much doubt but work will be got. I have had half a promise from Mr. Wilson that he will employ you."

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What, Wilson of the Grange?"

Yes, John; and he is a good man, you know; and if he says a thing he means it. But if you should have to wait a little while for work, we shall be able to manage somehow. See what I have got here, John."

Saying this, Sarah Adams emptied a little bag upon the table. Its contents were a few Scripture tickets, and two or three cards with parts of hymns on them; for it was Sarah's old Sunday-school ticket bag. But, besides these, there was a heap of shillings and sixpences, which, by means of very close work with her needle, and a great deal of economy, she had managed to save during her husband's imprisonment. To tell the truth, it was with some degree of trepidation that Sarah exhibited her hoard, for she had her doubts and fears lest the sight of such wealth (for it was wealth to her) might not tempt poor John to idleness and dissipation. But she felt that it was right, for more reasons than one, that her husband should know all she had done while he was away; and she had hoped and prayed that he might thereby be encouraged to exercise greater perseverance than formerly.

"It is all yours, John, whatever there is," she said.

"No, no," he replied, huskily; "I won't touch it, Sarah. I have got two or three shillings too, and that may as well go with it, and you can keep it. There it is." And John Adams laid what he had got on the table. ""Tis jail money, though," he added, "and may be you won't like it to be mixed with yours."

It was mixed up together, however, and then there was a short interval of silence, while John sat looking at the fire and thinking. At last he spoke again

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Sarah," said he, half laughing, but puzzled too, "you seem to have got on a deal better without me than with me."

"Oh, John, dear John, don't say that-please don't," she

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