ain, and ended his tale even as he had begun, with
the entreaty--"Father, if you only knew--"

"My knowing and my judging seem to have been of little value, my son.
Be it so. There is One wiser than I--One in whose hands are the issues
of all things."

The sort of contrition with which he spoke--thus retracting, as it
costs most men so much to retract, a decision given however justly at
the time, but which fate has afterwards pronounced unjust, affected his
son deeply.

"Father, your decision was right--William says it was. He says also,
that it could not have been otherwise; that whatever he has become
since, he owes it all to you, and to what passed that day. Though he
loves her still, will never love any one else; yet he declares his loss
of her has proved his salvation."

"He is right," said Mrs. Halifax. "Love is worth nothing that will not
stand trial--a fiery trial, if needs be. And as I have heard John say
many and many a time--as he said that very night--in this world there
is not, ought not to be, any such words as 'too late.'"

John made no answer. He sat, his chin propped on his right hand, the
other pressed against his bosom--his favourite attitude. Once or
twice, with a deep-drawn, painful breath, he sighed.

Guy's eagerness could not rest. "Father, I told him I would either
write to or see him to-day."

"Where is he?"

"At Norton Bury. Nothing could induce him to come here, unless certain
that you desired it."

"I do desire it."

Guy started up with great joy. "Shall I write, then?"

"I will write myself."

But John's hand shook so much, that instead of his customary free, bold
writing, he left only blots upon the page. He leant back in his chair,
and said faintly--

"I am getting an old man, I see. Guy, it was high time you came home."

Mrs. Halifax thought he was tired, and made a place for his head on her
pillow, where he rested some minutes, "just to please her," he said.
Then he rose and declared he would himself drive over to Norton Bury
for our old friend.

"Nay, let me write, father. To-morrow will do just as well."

The father shook his head. "No--it must be to-day."

Bidding good-bye to his wife--he never by any chance quitted her for an
hour without a special tender leave-taking--John went away.

Guy was, he avouched, "as happy as a king." His old liveliness
returned; he declared that in this matter, which had long weighed
heavily on his mind, he had acted