n the room, Dick was able to look upon
his father's face unobserved. The change shocked him. Was it grief for a
dead son, or grief for an erring one, that had whitened his hair and
hollowed his cheeks?

In the few days that had elapsed since his interview with Colonel Dundas,
Dick had pulled up wonderfully. He had not come on to New York until he
felt himself strong enough to face the ordeal before him. He had forgiven
his mother from the first. What she did must have been done with the best
intentions. The poverty of her son and the dire distress of his father
had tempted her to obtain possession of money by forgery. The bank had at
once suspected the ne'er-do-well son. The son had been proclaimed dead,
and the mother had chosen silence.

These things, so unforgivable, were at once condoned by the
tender-hearted lad, who only remembered his mother's caresses and her
constant anxiety for his welfare from the day of his birth. It was the
loss of Dora that stung him most--the thought that she had believed him
dead and disgraced. His father's attitude puzzled him more, and he
naturally jumped to the conclusion that John Swinton knew nothing; that
he was deceived by his wife, like the rest; otherwise, he would have
scouted the lie on the instant, no matter what the consequences. Such was
the son's belief in his father's integrity.

What would his father's reception be?

He raised his finger to tap at the window, but paused as this thought
occurred to him. The rector could not fail to receive him back from the
dead joyfully; but there would be the inevitable reckoning to pay. Even
now, the lad hesitated, wondering whether, after all, Colonel Dundas were
not right in declaring him better dead. But he was not without hope; and
his determination to be set right in Dora's eyes was inflexible.

He tapped at the window, gently. The rector started and listened, but
hearing nothing further, supposed that he had been mistaken as to the
sound.

The prodigal tapped again, this time with a coin. There was no mistaking
the summons. The rector went to the window, flung back the curtains, and
peered out, standing between the window and the light.

Dick pressed himself close to the glass, and took off his cap.

"Father!" he cried. "Open the window."

It was Dick's voice, but not Dick's face.

"Open the window."

Like a man in a dream, the rector loosened the catch, and opened the
casement.

"Father--father! It is I--Dick--ali