any request save one. He wisely and tenderly tried to dissuade him
from the false step that could never be retraced but all in vain.

He remembered his father's face on that morning when, with outstretched
hands, he bade him leave his presence and never seek it more--when he
told him that whenever he looked upon his dead face he was to remember
that death itself was less bitter than the hour in which he had been
deceived.

Sad, bitter memories filled his heart when the carriage stopped at the
door and Ronald caught sight of the old familiar faces, some in smiles,
some in tears.

The library door was thrown open. Hardly knowing whither he went, Lord
Earle entered, and it was closed behind him. His eyes, dimmed with
tears, saw a tall, stately lady, who advanced to meet him with open
arms.

The face he remembered so fair and calm bore deep marks of sorrow; the
proud, tender eyes were shadowed; the glossy hair was threaded with
silver; but it was his mother's voice that cried to him, "My son, my
son, thank Heaven you have returned!"

He never remembered how long his mother held him clasped in her arms.
Earth has no love like a mother's love--none so tender, so true, so
full of sweet wisdom, so replete with pity and pardon. It was her own
son whom Lady Earle held in her arms. She forgot that he was a man who
had incurred just displeasure. He was her boy, her own treasure, and so
it was that her words of greeting were all of loving welcome.

"How changed you are," she said, drawing him nearer to the fast-fading
light. "Your face is quite bronzed, and you look so many years
older--so sad, so worn! Oh, Ronald, I must teach you to grow young and
happy again!"

He sighed deeply, and his mother's heart grew sad as she watched his
restless face.

"Old-fashioned copy-books say, mother, that 'to be happy one must be
good.' I have not been good," he said with a slight smile, "and I
shall never be happy."

In the faint waning light, through which the snow gleamed strangely,
mother and son sat talking. Lady Earle told Ronald of his father's
death--of the last yearning cry when all the pent-up love of years
seemed to rush forth and overpower him with its force. It was some
comfort to him, after all, that his father's last thoughts and last
words had been of him.

His heart was strangely softened; a new hope came to him. Granted that
the best part of his life was wasted, he would do his best with the
remainder.

"