I told the simple, plain story--nothing more.
Abel Fletcher listened at first in silence.

As I proceeded he felt about for his hat, put it on, and drew its broad brim close down over his eyes.

Not even when I told him of the flour we had promised in his name, the giving of which would, as we had calculated, cost him considerable loss, did he utter a word or move a muscle.
John at length asked him if he were satisfied.
"Quite satisfied." But, having said this, he sat so long, his hands locked together on his knees, and his hat drawn down, hiding all the face except the rigid mouth and chin--sat so long, so motionless, that we became uneasy.
John spoke to him gently, almost as a son would have spoken.
"Are you very lame still?
Could I help you to walk home ?" My father looked up, and slowly held out his hand.
"Thee hast been a good lad, and a kind lad to us; I thank thee." There was no answer, none.

But all the words in the world could not match that happy silence.
By degrees we got my father home.

It was just such another summer morning as the one, two years back, when we two had stood, exhausted and trembling, before that sternly-bolted door.