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There being no delay at Acapulco, and but little at New Orleans, our voyagers were soon aboard one of the palatial steamers that ploughed the waters of the Mississippi in the days when steamboating on the river was in the height of its glory. Floating palaces, with hearts of fire and arteries of steam, were equipped in the most sumptuous style. The cuisine of their tables was never excelled in any land. Trained servants were on duty at every hand in all departments, and such river races as the pen of Mark Twain has made immortal infused an alluring element of danger into the daily life of the adventurous traveller.

St. Louis was passed, and Cairo; and the voyage up the Illinois to Peoria was speedily consummated.

The brothers struck out afoot for the old home, which they came into sight of at sundown. A light snow covered the ground, and a bitter wind was blowing hard.

"Down, Rover, down! Don't you know your master?" exclaimed the returned wanderer, as the great mastiff sprang at him with a low, savage growl, which changed at once to vehement proclamations of welcome as the faithful creature recognized his friend.

"Bless the dog! But be quiet! We want to surprise the old folks."

In the cosey sitting-room of the little cottage sat a prematurely aged woman, plying her needle and softly crooning a plaintive lullaby. A couple of tallow candles burned dimly on a little table, and a much-worn workbasket sat at her left. In the opposite corner an old man sat, his head bowed, as if sleeping. An open Bible had fallen from his hand.

"There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night," sighed the woman, as she folded her finished work, her thoughts reverting to scenes long vanished.

The white-bearded man aroused himself at her words and spoke.