d ever have doubted his son. It seemed to him that he was standing
there himself. He recognized his own feature and carriage, his own frank
but rather haughty expression, his own clear, bright eye.

Then, suddenly noticing details, he was shocked to see Jacques so much
reduced. He found him looking painfully pale, and he actually discovered
at the temples more than one silvery hair amid his thick black curls.

"Poor child!" he said. "How you must have suffered!"

"I thought I should lose my senses," replied Jacques simply.

And with a tremor in his voice, he asked,--

"But, dear father, why did you give me no sign of life? Why did you stay
away so long?"

The marquis was not unprepared for such a question. But how could he
answer it? Could he ever tell Jacques the true secret of his hesitation?
Turning his eyes aside, he answered,--

"I hoped I should be able to serve you better by remaining in Paris."
But his embarrassment was too evident to escape Jacques.

"You did not doubt your own child, father?" he asked sadly.

"Never!" cried the marquis, "I never doubted a moment. Ask your mother,
and she will tell you that it was this proud assurance I felt which kept
me from coming down with her. When I heard of what they accused you, I
said 'It is absurd!'"

Jacques shook his head, and said,--

"The accusation was absurd; and yet you see what it has brought me to."

Two big tears, which he could no longer retain, burnt in the eyes of the
old gentleman.

"You blame me, Jacques," he said. "You blame your father."

There is not a man alive who could see his father shed tears, and not
feel his heart melt within him. All the resolutions Jacques had formed
vanished in an instant. Pressing his father's hand in his own, he
said,--

"No, I do not blame you, father. And still I have no words to tell
you how much your absence has added to my sufferings. I thought I was
abandoned, disowned."

For the first time since his imprisonment, the unfortunate man found a
heart to whom he could confide all the bitterness that overflowed in his
own heart. With his mother and with Dionysia, honor forbade him to
show despair. The incredulity of M. Magloire had made all confidence
impossible; and M. Folgat, although as sympathetic as man could be was,
after all, a perfect stranger.

But now he had near him a friend, the dearest and most precious friend
that a man can ever have,--his father: now he had nothing to fear.

"Is there