containing nothing but the mattress, a broken-down stove, and a few cracked dishes. There was half a loaf of stale bread beside the dishes, and nothing else to eat was in sight.
"What a place to live in!" murmured the boy to himself. "Poor father! Poor father!"
He again bent over the motionless form, and it was not long before he had the satisfaction of seeing his father open his eyes.
"Matt, is it really you, or is this another one of those tantalizing dreams?" asked Mr. Lincoln feebly, as he essayed to rise to a sitting position.
"It is really I, father," returned the son gently. "You had better lie still for awhile. Your run exhausted you."
"How thankful I am that it is really you! But there must be some mistake. I have dreamed of these things before. That is why I ran away."
"There is no mistake now, father, it is really and truly I," and Matt bent lower and wound his arms around his father's neck. "You have nothing more to fear, father. Just rely on me for everything."
"I will, Matt, I will! I know it is you, now that you are so close to me!"
"And, father, you must promise that you will not run away again."
"I promise, Matt. My mind was upset—it's up-
