now, she will take to you and
cheer you up.'

Kester was quite out of breath with this long speech that he blurted
out, but he was hardly prepared for the result; for before he had
finished a low sob broke from Mat's lips, and he sat down shaking with
emotion, and covered his face with his hands. Kester looked at him
wistfully.

'Have I said anything to hurt him?' he whispered; but Mat's ears caught
the words.

'No, no,' he returned vehemently; 'you have put fresh life into me by
speaking so kindly. It was only the word "father" that I never thought
to hear. God bless you, my boy, for saying that! I thought that she
would have taught you to hate me--as she did herself.'

'I shall never hate you, father; I would not be so wicked. If you will
let me come and see you sometimes I will try to be good to you, and I
know Mollie will, too. I suppose,' continued Kester doubtfully, 'that I
must not ask you to come and see us in return. It is mother's house,
and----'

But Mat finished the speech:

'No, my lad, you are right. Your mother and I have parted for this
life.' And now he spoke with a sort of mournful dignity. 'The time was
when I worshipped the ground she walked upon; but there are limits to a
man's love. When she forsook me in my shame and trouble, when she stood
there taunting me in my prison cell, my heart seemed to die to her.
Olive is nought to me now but a bitter memory, and if she prayed to me
on her bended knees I would not enter her house.'

It was Cyril's turn to speak now.

'Yes, you are better apart,' he said in a low voice; 'and my mother has
always been my charge. I shall tell her that she must not hinder Mollie
or Kester from coming to see you. Shall you still remain here, father?'

He said the word with some little effort, but the same brightness came
into Mat's eyes.

'I think so, my lad; I would as lief stay with Tom. All these years he
has stuck to me, and I'll not forsake him now.'

'And you will be comfortable?'

Cyril asked the question with some degree of interest, and again Mat's
eyes glistened with pleasure.

'I doubt if I was ever so comfortable in my life,' he returned, without
any hesitation. 'You are young, my boy, and trouble is new to you, and
Heaven forbid that you should ever be able to put yourself in my place.
But if you only knew what it is to me to bid good-night to someone
again!

'It is not much of a life, perhaps,' went on Mat, with his gentle,
melancholy drawl;