The congregation had risen at parting, and as usual had sung in unison, "Blest be the tie that binds," and a little later, sitting by the car-window of the last train that was so fast bearing her back to the protection of her people, Reba repeated the words of the first stanza of that hymn, softly to herself. And as she gazed out of the car-window, at the hills drawing in closer and closer to the railroad track, growing more and more familiar with their slanting pasturage, climbing stone-walls, splotches of dark green juniper, and patches of gray rock, breaking through here and there, a wave of love for her rugged home-country, of kindredship for her rugged home-people, rugged home-ideals, never mind how "narrow" according to city standards, swept over Reba Jerome.
When she stepped out at last on the old well-known platform, and Tom, the baggage-master, glanced up and smiled at her, and said casually, "How d'yer do, Miss Reba. This is a surprise, ain't it?" Reba felt a timid desire to take his gnarled, baggage-bruised hands in both hers, and exclaim, "Oh, blest be the tie that binds!"
After slipping her letters to Miss Ellsworth and Mamie into the station mail-box, she proceeded on foot directly to her father's house. It wasn't until she saw the light dimly glowing in the vestibule of the side door of 89 Chestnut Street that she considered the difficulty of explaining her sudden homecoming to her people. But she considered it with no slackening of her step. They would have to take her in. She was theirs—belonged to them by blood. And all that mattered to Reba then was that she was taken in, given a refuge, she cared not how nor in
