enturies. According to the standards of man, His
death was unjust, and He knew it to be unjust, but He never flinched or
faltered. "Father, forgive them; they know not what they do," He had
said when the ignorant rabble had railed at Him. "Father, into Thy
hands I commend My spirit," He had said, and then gave up the ghost.
It was wonderful!

In that hour Paul Stepaside realised that he had been less than an
infant crying for the light, and with no language but a cry. He had
shut out the light by a poor little conceit of his own. He had dared
to judge life by paltry little standards. He had dared to say what was
and what was not--he! He knew less than nothing!

After all, that which had embittered him more than anything else, that
which he said had robbed him of his faith--even in that he had been
proved to be wrong. It was a great thing his father had done. Of
course he had sinned, of course his life had been unworthy. His
treatment of his mother was the act of a dastardly coward--the base
betrayal, the long absence, the marrying another woman--oh! it was all
poor and mean and contemptible! Nothing but a coward, ay, a villain,
could have done it. And yet there was something noble in his
atonement. Of course sin must be followed by suffering and by hell.
He saw that plain enough. He saw, too, that not only the sinner
suffered, but others suffered. Yet who was he to judge? His father--a
proud man, proud of his family name, proud of the position he had
obtained, one of the highest in the realm of law--had, in face of a
crowd hungry for sensation, eager to fasten upon any garbage of gossip
which might come in its way, confessed the truth, even although that
truth had made his name the subject of gossip for millions of tongues.
Yes; there was something noble in it, and Paul felt his heart soften as
he thought and remembered. Whatever else it had done, it had made his
own fate easier to bear.

He thought of the look on Judge Bolitho's face as he came to his cell
on the day of the confession, remembered the pleading tones: "Paul, my
son, I want your forgiveness, your love."

Perhaps it was because his heart was so weighed down with grief, and
his life was unutterably lonely, that he cried out like one whose life
was filled with a great yearning: "Father, father!"

He heard a sound at the door of the cell. The warder entered, followed
by the form of a woman. His heart gave a great bound.

"Mary!" he c