the echo of Todd's steps faded away and he began to realize that
he was alone, there crept over him for the first time in years the
comforting sense that he was once more under his own roof--his again and
all that it covered--all that he loved; even his beloved dogs. He left
his chair and with a quick indrawing of his breath, as if he had just
sniffed the air from some open sea, stretched himself to his full
height. There he stood looking about him, his shapely fingers patting
his chest; his eyes wandering over the room, first with a sweeping
glance, and then resting on each separate object as it nodded to him
under the glow of the candles.

He had come into his possessions once more. Not that the very belongings
made so much difference as his sense of pride in their ownership. They
had, too, in a certain way regained for him his freedom--freedom to go
and come and do as he pleased untrammelled by makeshifts and humiliating
exposures and concealments. Best of all, they had given him back
his courage, bracing the inner man, strengthening his beliefs in his
traditions and in the things that his race and blood stood for.

Then as a flash of lightning reveals from out black darkness the
recurrent waves of a troubled sea, there rushed over him the roll and
surge of the events which had led up to his rehabilitation. Suddenly a
feeling of intense humiliation and profound gratitude swept through him.
He raised his arms, covered his face with his hands, and stood swaying;
forcing back his tears; muttering to himself: "How good they have
been--how good, how good! All mine once more--wonderful--wonderful!"
With a resolute bracing of his shoulders and a brave lift of his chin,
he began a tour of the room, stopping before each one of his beloved
heirlooms and treasures--his precious gun that Gadgem had given up--(the
collector coveted it badly as a souvenir, and got it the next day from
St. George, with his compliments)--the famous silver loving cup with
an extra polish Kirk had given it; his punch bowl--scarf rings and
knick-knacks and the furniture and hangings of various kinds. At last he
reached the sideboard, and bending over reread the several cards
affixed to the different donations--Mrs. Cheston's, Mrs. Horn's, Miss
Clendenning's, and the others. His eye now fell on the lone bottle--this
he had not heretofore noticed--and the note bearing Mr. Kennedy's
signature. "I send you back, St. George, that last bottle of old
Madeir