itical mission he had once believed to be his own impossible
nothing left to him of his glorious dreams but existence--and all for
what? For the mad, foolish love of a pretty face. He hated himself
for his weakness and folly. For that--for the fair, foolish woman who
had shamed him so sorely--he had half broken his mother's heart, and
had imbittered his father's life. For that he had made himself an
exile, old in his youth, worn and weary, when life should have been all
smiling around him.

These thoughts flashed through his mind as the express train whirled
through the quiet English landscape. Winter snows had fallen, the
great bare branches of the tall trees were gaunt and snow-laden, the
fields were one vast expanse of snow, the frost had hardened the
icicles hanging from hedges and trees. The scene seemed strange to him
after so many years of the tropical sun. Yet every breath of the
sharp, frosty air invigorated him and brought him new life and energy.

At length the little station was reached, and he saw the carriage with
his liveried servants awaiting him. A warm flush rose to Lord Earle's
face; for a moment he felt almost ashamed of meeting his old domestics.
They must all know now why he had left home. His own valet, Morton, was
there. Lord Earle had kept him, and the man had asked permission to go
and meet his old master.

Ronald was pleased to see him; there were a few words of courteous
greeting from Lord Earle to all around, and a few still kinder words to
Morton.

Once again Ronald saw the old trees of which he had dreamed so often,
the stately cedars, the grand spreading oaks, the tall aspens, the lady
beeches, the groves of poplars--every spot was familiar to him. In the
distance he saw the lake shining through the trees; he drove past the
extensive gardens, the orchards now bare and empty. He was not ashamed
of the tears that rushed warmly to his eyes when the towers and turrets
of Earlescourt came in sight.

A sharp sense of pain filled his heart--keen regret, bitter remorse, a
longing for power to undo all that was done, to recall the lost
miserable years--the best of his life. He might return; he might do
his best to atone for his error; but neither repentance nor atonement
would give him back the father whose pride he had humbled in the dust.

As the carriage rolled up the broad drive, a hundred instances of his
father's love and indulgence flashed across him--he had never refused