The Liberal democrat. [volume] (Liberal, Kan.) 1911-1924, 1914-07-03
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IN THE OLD HOME
!, BY MARY ROBERTS RINEHART.

dining room. The house was curious
ly quiet, though faint sounds came
from the kitchen, where the evening
dishes were being Enthusiastically,
so as not to disturb the hush.
After while his sister came to him.
Her eyes were red and her face was
blotched and swollen. The Prodigal
got up awkwardly and shook hands.
How are you, Selma? ?" he asked. re-
turning her nervous clasp.
Pretty WELL" she said formally.
I'VE didn't know you were back till
yesterday. The last we heard you
were in Montana"
Il was there for q couple OF years.
II just heard this morning about IA
Their. How is he?"
Very low" she answered In a
hushed tone. And then she began to
cry, noiselessly, without attempting
to wipe away the tears that rolled
down her pale cheeks. The Prodigal
put out his hand. as II to comfort her:
then he remembered and drew II back.
He looked strangely out of place In
the ugly responsibility Of the room.
He knew 1t all 30 we'll; the built-in
corner cupboard, with the glass doors.
and his mothers weddlng-cups on
hooks just inside; the red and green
cover on the square table; the black
marble clock on the mantel-lt was
all the same, except that Just beside
, him there was a buffet, new and
snowy, with a silver-plated tea set on
the top. He OWNED that George had
bought It,
His sister was not crying now. She
was inspecting him - his shabby
clothes. his frayed linen, the gray in
his thinning hair. And then some
thing In his face caught her atten-
ton; his chin was working convul-
sively, and there we're tears in his
sunken eyes. The lines left by years
of dissipation we're obliterated for the
time, and there remained only grief
and a great regret.
"Oulu yOu llhO " 81 ups ohO
asked more kindly. All the small
things-resentment, anger, bitterness
were swallowed up in this trouble
that had come. Then, seeing his hesi-
tation; Il don't think he will know
YOU" she said.
The Prodigal creaked up the stairs
after her Instinctively he avoided
the second step from the top; there
had always been loose board there.
George isn't here" his sister whis-
pered, turning. HE has been camp
ing for a week and he cant get back
until morning. The elders from the
church have been taking turns at sit
ting up. Wait until l see If he is
sleeping"
The Prodigal stood on the little land
ing and waited. The house spread out
on three sides OF him, smaller than
he had remembered it, but otherwise
unchanged. The door was open into
the bare study. There were books
everywhere-how familiar was that
confusion of books but the desk was
strangely orderly.
His sister did not come back to him
at once, so he went in and sat down.
Even the wallpaper was the same.
Over In the corner, behind the book
cases, would be the pencil-marks
which had registered for years his
annual gain in inches, only-he could
not look. And there was his moth
er's picture, in its black walnut frame,
and under it George himself, in queer
plaid dresses and black shoes with
white buttons. He had been taller
than George in those early days; it
was long time ago-a long time.
His sister came to the doorway.
He won't know you" she said. You
can come in"
The dim light of the lamp was kept
from the sick mans eyes by a green
shade on one side of the burner. The
Prodigal stopped inside the doorway
awkwardly, while his sister went over
and smoothed the counterpart.
he doesn't loss around any, she
said. He just lies there"
The Prodigal moved over slowly and
looked down at the old minister's face.
The thin white hair was spread lit
tie over the pillow, like an aureole,
making the placid face. with its closed
eyes, look frail, almost ethereal AS
the son looked down the dying man
opened his eyes.
George" he said weakly, and held
out his thin white hand. The Prodi-
gal was embarrassed; he glanced at
his sister for assistance.
His eyes are bad" she whispered
IF he thinks George is here he'll be
happier"
The man stopped and put his hand
over his fathers. The thin fingers
gripped his and held them. There was
something in the touch that brought
a lump into the mans throat After
a moment when the fingers did not re-
lax, he slipped to his knees beside the
bed. The old man slept again. Except
that he was breathing slowly, it might
have been the sleep of child
An hour passed, and still the Prod
igal knelt beside the bed. Once some
one creaked up the stairs. and after
consultation with Selma, creaked