He wanted to tell Sara of the happiness which his son's return had brought him, and to thank her for her share in bringing it to pass.

He wanted, too, to tell her of the sorrow and repentance which filled his heart, and the deep gratitude he felt for all she had done for him.
She was already in her garden attending to her bees.
"Sara, woman," said the old man, standing straight before her with outstretched hands.
"Dear, dear, Ebben Owens, so early coming to see me! Sit thee down, then, here in the sun," and she placed her hand in his, endeavouring to draw him down beside her; but he resisted her gentle pressure and, still standing, bent his head like a guilty child.
"No, no," he said, with a tremble in his voice.

"Tell me first, can'st forgive me my shameful sin?
Everybody is forgiving me too easy, much too easy, I know.

'Tis only one will be always remembering, and that is me." "I am not surprised at that, and I am glad to hear those words from thee," said Sara, "but my forgiveness, Ebben bach, is as full and free as I believe thy repentance is deep." And gradually the old man ceased to resist her gentle persuasions, and, sitting down beside her, the bees humming round them, and the sun rising higher and higher in the sky, they conversed together in that perfect communion of soul which sometimes gilds the friendship of old age.

Together they had experienced the joys of youth, in middle age both had tasted the bitterness of sorrow, and now in old age the calm and peace of evening was beginning to shine upon one as it had long shone upon the other.
"I have never thanked thee," he said at last, "for all thy loving-kindness to me; never in words, Sara, but I have felt it; and I thank God that thou art living here so near me, where I can come sometimes for refreshment of spirit, as my journey draws towards the end, for I am a weak man, as thou knowest, and often stumble in my path.