one shall
ever come between us; no, not even the man I should call father."

"He is yore father, Freddie. It 's jest like I told Hester. She was fur
sendin' him along." In spite of himself, a pang shot through Brent's
heart at this. "But I said, 'No, no, Hester, he 's Fred's father an' we
must take him in, fur our boy's sake.'"

"Not for my sake, not for my sake!" broke out the young man.

"Well, then, fur our Master's sake. We took him in. He was mighty low
down. It seemed like the Lord had jest spared him to git here. Hester 's
with him now, an'--an'--kin you stand to hear it?--the doctor says he 's
only got a little while to live."

"Oh, I can stand it," Brent replied, with unconscious irony. The
devotion and the goodness of the old man had softened him as thought,
struggle, and prayer had failed to do.

"Will you go in now?" asked Eliphalet. "He wants to see you: he can't
die in peace without."

The breath came hard between his teeth as Brent replied, "I said I would
n't see him. I came because I thought you needed me."

"He 's yore father, Freddie, an' he 's penitent. All of us pore mortals
need a good deal o' furgivin', an' it does n't matter ef one of us needs
a little more or a little less than another: it puts us all on the same
level. Remember yore sermon about charity, an'--an' jedge not. You
'ain't seen all o' His plan. Come on." And, taking the young man by the
hand, he led him into the room that had been his own. Hester rose as he
entered, and shook hands with him, and then she and her husband silently
passed out.

The sufferer lay upon the bed, his eyes closed and his face as white as
the pillows on which he reclined. Disease had fattened on the hollow
cheeks and wasted chest. One weak hand picked aimlessly at the coverlet,
and the laboured breath caught and faltered as if already the hand of
Death was at his throat.

The young man stood by the bed, trembling in every limb, his lips now as
white as the ashen face before him. He was cold, but the perspiration
stood in beads on his brow as he stood gazing upon the face of his
father. Something like pity stirred him for a moment, but a vision of
his own life came up before him, and his heart grew hard again. Here was
the man who had wronged him irremediably.

Finally the dying man stirred uneasily, muttering, "I dreamed that he
had come."

"I am here." Brent's voice sounded strange to him.

The eyes opened, and the sufferer gazed at him. "Are