of the house. Closing the book, and hastily putting it back again in the old bureau, Ephraim sprang to the window and opened it.
"Is that you, father?" he cried.
There was no answer.
Ephraim repeated his question.
He strained his eyes, peering into the dense darkness, but no living thing could he see. Then quite close to him a voice cried: "Make no noise . . . and first put out the light."
"Heavens! Father, it is you then . . .!" Ephraim exclaimed.
"Hush!" came in a whisper from without, "first put out the light."
Ephraim closed the window, and extinguished the light. Then, with almost inaudible step, he walked out of the room into the dark passage; noiselessly he proceeded to unbolt the street-door. Almost at the same moment a heavy hand clasped his own.
"Father, father!" Ephraim cried, trying to raise his parent's hand to his lips.
"Make no noise," the man repeated, in a somewhat commanding tone.
With his father's hand in his, cautiously feeling his way, Ephraim led him into the room. In the room adjoining lay Viola, sleeping peacefully. . . .
Time was when "Wild" Ascher's welcome home had been far otherwise. Eighteen years
