"Yes, he told me,—Peter Junior told me, and he came here to give himself up, but you won't let him give himself up."

"Miss Ballard," said the judge again, "you will remember that you are to speak only in reply to questions put to you. Mr. Hibbard, continue the examination."

"Miss Ballard, you admit that you saw Richard Kildene after he fought with his cousin?"

"Yes."

"Was his head wounded?"

"Yes."

"What did you do?"

"I washed his head and bound it up. It was all bleeding."

"Very well. Then you can say on your sacred oath that Richard Kildene was living and not murdered?"

"Yes."

"Did you see Peter Junior after they fought?"

"No. If I had seen him, I could have told everybody they were both alive and there would have been no—"

"Look at the prisoner. Can you tell the jury where the cut on Richard Kildene's head was?"

"Yes, I can. When I stood in front of him to bind it up, it was under my right hand."

From this point the examiner began to touch upon things Betty would gladly have concealed in her own heart, concerning her engagement to Peter Junior, and her secret understanding with his cousin, and whether she loved the one or the other, and what characteristics in them caused her to prefer the one over the other, and why she had never confided her preferences to any of her relatives or friends. Still, with head erect, Betty flung back her answers.

Bertrand listened and writhed. The prisoner sat with bowed head. To him she seemed a veritable saint. He knew how she suffered in this public revelation of herself—of her innocent struggle between love and loyalty, and maiden modesty, and that the desire to protect him and help him was giving her strength. He saw how valiantly she has been guarding her terrible secret from all the world while he had been fleeing and hiding. Ah, if he had only been courageous! If he had not fled, nor tried to cover his flight with proofs of his death! If he had but stood to his guns like a soldier! He covered his face in shame.

As for Richard, he gloried in her. He felt his heart swell in triumph as he listened. He heard Amalia Manovska murmur: "Ah, how she is very beautiful! No wonder it is that they both loved her!"

While he was filled with admiration for her, yet his heart ached for her, and with anger and reproach against himself. He saw no one but her, and he wanted to end it all and carry her away, but still yielded to his father's earnest plea that he should wait. He understood, and would restrain himself until Larry was satisfied, and the trial ended. Still the examination went on.

"Miss Ballard, you admit that Peter Junior was lame when last you saw him, and you observe that the prisoner has no lameness, and you admit that you bound up a wound which had been inflicted on the head of Richard Kildene, and here you see the scar upon the prisoner; can you still on your sacred oath declare this man to be the son of the plaintiff?"

"Yes!" She looked earnestly at the prisoner. "It is not the same head and it is not the same scar." Again she extended her hands toward the jury pleadingly and then toward the prisoner. "It is not by people's legs we know them,—nor by their scars—it is by themselves—by—by their souls. Oh! I know you, Peter! I know you!"

With the first petulance Milton Hibbard had shown during the trial he now turned to the prisoner's counsel and said: "Take the witness."

"No cross-examination?" asked Nathan Goodbody, with a smile.

"No."

Then Betty flung one look back at the Elder, and fled to her mother and hid her flushed face on Mary Ballard's bosom.

Now for the first time Richard could take an interest in the trial merely for his own and Peter Junior's sake. He saw Nathan Goodbody lean over and say a few words hurriedly to the prisoner, then rise and slightly lift his hand as if to make a special request.

"If the court please, the accused desires permission to tell his own story. May he be sworn on his own behalf?"

Permission being given, the prisoner rose and walked to the witness chair, and having been sworn by the clerk to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, began his statement.

Standing there watching him, and listening, Richard felt his heart throb with the old friendship for this comrade of his childhood, his youth, and his young manhood, in school, in college, and, at last, tramping side by side on long marches, camping together, sleeping side by side through many a night when the morrow might bring for them death or wounds, victory or imprisonment,—sharing the same emotions even until the first great passion of their lives cut them asunder.

Brought up without father or mother, this friendship had meant more to Richard than to most men. As he heard his cousin's plea he was only held from hurrying forward with extended arms by Larry's whispered words.

"It's fine, son. Let him have his say out. Don't stop him. Watch how it works on the old man yonder," for Peter Junior was telling of his childhood among the people of Leauvite, speaking in a low, clear voice which carried to all parts of the room.

"Your Honor, and Gentlemen of the Jury, Because I have no witness to attest to the truth of my claim, I am forced to make this plea, simply that you may believe me, that the accusation which my father through his lawyer brings against me could never be possible. You who knew my cousin, Richard Kildene, how honorable his life and his nature, know how impossible to him would be the crime of which I, in his name, am accused. I could not make this claim were I any other than I am—the son of the man who—does not recognize his son.

"Gentlemen of the Jury, you all knew us as boys together—how we loved each other and shared our pleasures like brothers—or more than brothers, for we quarreled less than brothers often do. During all the deep friendship of our lives, only once were we angry with each other—only once—and then—blinded by a great passion and swept beyond all knowledge of our acts, like men drunken we fought—we struggled against each other. Our friendship was turned to hatred. We tried—I think my cousin was trying to throw me over the brink of the bluff—at least he was near doing it. I do not make the plea of self-defense—for I was not acting in self-defense. I was lame, as you have heard, and not so strong as he. I could not stand against his greater strength,—but in my arms and hands I had power,—and I struck him with my cane. With all my force I struck him, and he—he—fell—wounded—and I—I—saw the blood gush from the wound I had made in his temple—with the stick I carried that day—in the place of my crutch.

"Your Honor and Gentlemen of the Jury, it was my—intent to kill him. I—I—saw him lying at my feet—and thought I had done so." Here Peter Junior bowed his head and covered his face with his hands, and a breathless silence reigned in the court room until he lifted his head and began again. "It is now three years and more—and during all the time that has passed—I have seen him lying so—white—dead—and red with his own blood—that I had shed. You asked me why I have at last returned, and I reply, because I will no longer bear that sight. It is the curse of Cain that hangs over a murderer's soul, and follows wherever he goes. I tell you the form of my dead friend went with me always—sleeping, he lay beside me; waking, he lay at my feet. When I looked into the shadows, he was there, and when I worked in the mine and swung my pick against the walls of rock, it seemed that I still struck at my friend.

"Well may my father refuse to own me as his son—me—a murderer—but one thing can I yet do to expiate my deed,—I can free my cousin's name from all blame, and if I were to hang for my deed, gladly would I walk over coals to the gallows, rather than that such a crime should be laid at his door as that he tried to return here and creep into my place after throwing me over the bluff into those terrible waters.

"Do with me what you will, Gentlemen of the Jury, but free his name. I understand that my cousin's body was never found lying there as I had left it when I fled in cowardice—when I tried to make all the world think me also dead, and left him lying there—when I pushed the great stone out of its place down where I had so nearly gone, and left my hat lying as it had fallen and threw the articles from my pocket over after the stone I had sent crashing down into the river. Since the testimony here given proves that I was mistaken in my belief that I had killed him, may God be thanked, I am free from the guilt of that deed. Until he returns or until he is found and is known to be living, do with me what you will. I came to you to surrender myself and make this confession before you, and as I stand here in your presence and before my Maker, I declare to you that what I have said is the truth."

As he ceased speaking he looked steadily at the Elder's averted face, then sat down, regarding no one else. He felt he had failed, and he sat with head bowed in shame and sorrow. A low murmur rose and swept through the court room like a sound of wind before a storm, and the old Elder leaned toward his lawyer and spoke in low tones, lifting a shaking finger, then dropped his hand and shifted slightly in his chair.

As he did so Milton Hibbard arose and began his cross-examination.

The simplicity of Peter Junior's story, and the ingenuous manner in which it had been told, called for a different cross-examination from that which would have been adopted if this same counsel had been called upon to cross-examine the Swede. He made no effort to entangle the witness, but he led him instead to repeat that part of his testimony in which he had told of the motive which induced him to return and give himself up to justice. In doing so his questions, the tone of his voice, and his manner were marked with incredulity. It was as if he were saying to the jury: "Just listen to this impossible story while I take him over it again. Did you ever hear anything like it?" When he had gone in this direction as far as he thought discreet, he asked abruptly: "I understand that you admit that you intended to kill your cousin, and supposed you had killed him?"

"Yes. I admit it."

"And that you ran away to escape the consequences?"

"Yes."

"Is it your observation that acknowledged murderers are usually possessed of the lofty motives and high sense of justice which you claim have actuated you?"

"I—"

Without waiting for the witness to reply, the lawyer turned and looked at the jury and with a sneer, said: "That's all."

"Your Honor, we have no other witness; the defense rests. I have proposed some requests for your charge to the jury which I will hand up."

And the judge said: "Counsel may address the jury."

During a slight pause which now ensued Larry Kildene tore a bit of blank paper from a letter and wrote upon it: "Richard Kildene is in this room and will come forward when called upon." This he folded and sent by a boy to Nathan Goodbody.



CHAPTER XXXIX

RECONCILIATION

Milton Hibbard arose and began his argument to the jury. It was a clear and forcible presentation of the case from his standpoint as counsel for the State.

After recapitulating all the testimony that had been brought out during the course of the trial, he closed with an earnest appeal for the State against the defendant, showing conclusively that he believed the prisoner guilty. The changing expressions on the faces of the jury and among his audience showed that he was carrying them largely with him. Before he began speaking, Richard again started forward, but still Larry held him back. "Let be, son. Stand by and watch the old man yonder. Hear what they have to say against Peter Junior. I want to know what they have in their hearts." The strong dramatic appeal which the situation held for Larry was communicated through him to Richard also, and again he waited, and Milton Hibbard continued his oratory.

"After all, the evidence against the prisoner still stands uncontradicted. You may see that to be able to sway you as he has, to be able to stand here and make his most touching and dramatic plea directly in the face of conclusive evidence, to dare to speak thus, proves the man to be a most consummate actor. Your Honor and Gentlemen of the Jury, nothing has ever been said against the intellect or facile ability of the prisoner. The glimpses we have been shown of his boyhood, even, prove his skill in carrying a part and holding a power over his comrades, and here we have the talent developed in the man.

"He is too wise to try to deny the statements made by the witnesses of the State, but from the moment Miss Ballard was allowed to see him alone in the jail, he has been able to carry the young lady with him. We do not bring any accusation against the young lady. No doubt she thinks him what he claims to be. No doubt he succeeded in persuading her he is her former fiance, knowing well that he saw her and talked with her before he fled, believing that her innocent acceptance of his story as the true explanation of his reappearance here and now will place him securely in the home of the man he claims is his father. That she saw Richard Kildene and knows him to be living is his reason for reappearing here and trying this most daring plea.

"Is the true Peter Craigmile, Jr., dead? Then he can never arise to take the place this young man is now daring to usurp. Can Richard Kildene be proved to be living? Then is he, posing as Peter Craigmile, Jr., free from the charge of murder even if he makes confession thereto. He returns and makes this plea because he would live the life of a free man and not that of an outcast. He has himself told you why.

"Now, as for the proofs that he is Richard Kildene, you have heard them—and know them to be unanswered. He has not the marks of Elder Craigmile's son. You have seen how the man he claims is his father refuses to even look upon him. Could a father be so deceived as not to know his own son? When Peter Craigmile, Jr., disappeared he was lame and feeble. This man returns,—strong and walking as well as one who never received a wound. Why, gentlemen, he stepped up here like a soldier—erect as a man who is sound in every limb. In that his subtlety has failed him. He forgot to act the part. But this forgetfulness only goes to further prove the point in hand. He was so sure of success that he forgot to act the part of the man he pretends to be.

"He has forgotten to tell the court how he came by that scar above his temple,—yet he makes the statement that he himself inflicted such a wound on the head of Richard Kildene—the omission is remarkable in so clever an actor. Miss Ballard also admits having bound up that wound on the head of Richard Kildene,—but still she claims that this man is her former fiance, Peter Craigmile, Jr. Gentlemen of the Jury, is it possible that you can retire from this court room and not consider carefully this point? Is it not plainly to be seen that the prisoner thought to return and take the place of the man he has slain, and through the testimony of the young lady prove himself free from the thing of which he accuses himself in his confession, and so live hereafter the life of a free man without stain—and at last to marry the young girl he has loved, of whom he robbed his cousin, and for whom he killed him, and counting on the undeniable resemblance to that cousin, as proved in this court, to deceive not only the young lady herself—but also this whole community—thus making capital out of that resemblance to his own advantage and—"

"Never! Never!" cried a voice from the far corner of the court room. Instantly there was a stir all over. The Elder jumped up and frowned toward the place from whence the interruption came, and Milton Hibbard lifted his voice and tried to drown the uproar that rose and filled the room, but not one word he uttered could be heard.

Order was called, and the stillness which ensued seemed ominous. Some one was elbowing his way forward, and as he passed through the crowd the uproar began again. Every one was on his feet, and although the prisoner stood and gazed toward the source of commotion he could not see the man who spoke. He looked across to the place where Betty Ballard had been sitting between her father and mother, and there he saw her standing on a chair, forgetful of the throng around her and of all the eyes that had been fixed upon her during her testimony in cold criticism, a wonderful, transfiguring light in her great gray eyes, and her arms stretched out toward some one in the surging crowd who was drawing nearer to the prisoner's box. Her lips were moving. She was repeating a name over and over. He knew the name she was repeating soundlessly, with quivering lips, and his heart gave a great bound and then stopped beating, and he fell upon his knees and bowed his head on his hands as they clung to the railing in front of him.

Amalia, watching them all, with throbbing pulses and luminous eyes, saw and understood, and her spirit was filled with a great thankfulness which she could not voice, but which lifted her, serene and still, above every one there. Now she looked only at Peter Junior. Then a tremor crept over her, and, turning, she clasped Larry's arm with shaking hands.

"Let me that I lean a little upon you or I fall down. How this is beautiful!"

Larry put his arm about her and held her to him, supporting her gently. "It's all coming right, you see."

"Yes. But, how it is terrible for the old man! It is as if the lightning had fallen on him."

Larry glanced at his brother-in-law and then looked away. After all his desire to see him humbled, he felt a sense of shame in watching the old man's abject humility and remorse. Thereafter he kept his eyes fixed on his son, as he struggled with the throng packed closely around him and shouting now his name. Suddenly, when he could no longer progress, Richard felt himself lifted off his feet, and there, borne on the shoulders of the men,—as he had so shortly before been borne in triumph through the streets of Paris,—he was carried forward, this time by men who had tramped in the same column of infantry with him. Gladly now they held him aloft and shouted his name, and the people roared it back to them as they made way, and he was set down, as he directed, in the box beside the prisoner.

Had the Judge then tried to restore order it would have been futile. He did not try. He stood smiling, with his hand on the old Elder's shoulder. Then, while the people cheered and stamped and shouted the names of the two young men, and while women wept and turned to each other, clasping hands and laughing through tears, Milton Hibbard stooped and spoke in the Elder's ear.

"I throw up the case, man, and rejoice with you and the whole town. Go down there and take back your son."

"The Lord has visited me heavily for the wicked pride of my heart. I have no right to joy in my son's return. He should cast me off." The old man sat there, shriveled and weary—gazing straight before him, and seeing only his own foolish prejudice, like a Giant Despair, looming over him. But fortunately for him, no one saw him or noticed him but the two at his side, for all eyes were fixed on the young men, as they stood facing each other and gazed in each other's eyes.

It was a moment of breathless suspense throughout the court room, as if the crowd by one impulse were waiting to hear the young man speak, and the Judge seized the opportunity to again call for order.

When order had been secured, the prisoner's counsel rose and said: "If your Honor please, I ask leave to have the proofs opened, and to be permitted to call another witness."

The Judge replied: "I have no doubt the District Attorney will consent to this request. You may call your witness."

"Richard Kildene!" rang out the triumphant voice of Nathan Goodbody, and Richard stepped into the witness box and was sworn.

The natural eloquence with which he had been endowed was increased tenfold by his intense earnestness as he stood, turning now to the Judge and now to the jury, and told his story. The great audience, watching him and listening breathlessly, perceived the differences between the two men, a strong individuality in each causing such diversity of character that the words of Betty Ballard, which had so irritated the counsel, and which seemed so childish, now appealed to them as the truest wisdom—the wisdom of the "Child" who "shall lead them."

"It is not the same head and it is not the same scar. It is not by their legs or their scars we know people, it is by themselves—by their souls." Betty was vindicated.

Poignantly, intently, the audience felt as he wished them to feel the truth of his words, as he described the eternal vigilance of a man's own soul when he has a crime to expiate, and when he concluded by saying: "It is the Eye of Dread that sees into the hidden recesses of the heart,—to the uttermost end of life,—that follows the sinner even into his grave, until he yields to the demands of righteousness and accepts the terms of absolute truth," he carried them all with him, and again the tumult broke loose, and they shouted and laughed and wept and congratulated each other. The Judge himself sat stiffly in his seat, his chin quivering with an emotion he was making a desperate effort to conceal. Finally he turned and nodded to the sheriff, who rapped loudly for order. In a moment the room was silent, every one eager to hear what was to be the next step in the legal drama.

"Gentlemen of the Jury," said the Judge, "Notwithstanding what has occurred, it becomes our duty to proceed to an orderly determination of this case. If you believe the testimony of the last witness, then, of course, the crime charged has not been committed, the respondent is not guilty, and he is entitled to your verdict. You may, if you choose, consult together where you are, and if you agree upon a verdict, the court will receive it. If you prefer to retire to consider your verdict, you may do so."

The foreman of the jury then wrote the words, "Not guilty" on a piece of paper, and writing his name under it, passed it to the others. Each juror quickly signed his name under that of the foreman, and when it was returned to him, he arose and said: "The jury finds the accused not guilty."

Then for the first time every one looked at the Elder. He was seated bowed over his clasped hands, as if he were praying, as indeed he was, a fervent prayer for forgiveness.

Very quietly the people left the court room, filled with a reverent awe by the sight of the old man's face. It was as if he had suddenly died to the world while still sitting there before them. But at the door they gathered and waited. Larry Kildene waited with them until he spied Mary Ballard and Bertrand, with Betty, leaving, when he followed them and gave Amalia into their charge. It was a swift and glad meeting between Larry and his old friends, and a hurried explanation.

"I'm coming to tell you the whole, soon, but meantime I've brought this lovely young lady for you to care for. Go with them, Amalia, and tell them all about yourself, for they will be father and mother and sister to you. I've found my son—I've a world to tell you, but now I must hurry back and comfort my brother-in-law a bit." He took Mary's hand in his and held it a moment, then Bertrand's, and then he relieved the situation by taking Betty's and looking into her eyes, which looked tearfully back at him. Stooping, as if irresistibly drawn to her, he touched her fingers with his lips, and then lightly her hair. It was done with the grace of an old courtier, and he was gone, disappearing in the courthouse.

For a good while the crowd waited around the doors, neighbor visiting with neighbor and recounting the events of the trial that had most impressed them, and telling one and another how they had all along felt that the young prisoner was no other than Peter Junior, and laying all the blame on the Elder's reckless offer of so large a reward. Nels Nelson crept sulkily back to the stable, and G. B. Stiles returned to the hotel and packed his great valise and was taken to the station in the omnibus by Nels Nelson. As they parted, G. B. Stiles asked for the paper he had given the Swede.

"It's no good to you or any one now, you know. You're out nothing. I'm the only one that's out—all I've spent—"

"Yas, bot I got heem. You not—all ofer de vorl. Dey vas bot' coom back, dot's all," and so they parted.

Every one was glad and rejoiced over the return of the young men, with a sense of relief that resulted in hilarity, and no one would leave until he had had a chance to grasp the hands of the "boys." The men of the jury lingered with the rest, all eager to convince their friends that they would never have found the prisoner guilty of the charge against him, and at the same time chaffing each other about their discussions, and the way in which one and another had been caught by the evidence and Peter's changed appearance.

At last the doors of the courthouse opened, and the Judge, and Milton Hibbard, Peter Junior, his father, and the lawyers, and Larry and Richard walked out in a group, when shouting and cheering began anew. Before descending the steps, the Elder, with bared head, stepped forward and stood regarding the people in silence, and the noise of shouting and cheering stopped as suddenly as it began. The devout old man stood erect, but his words came to them brokenly.

"My friends and my neighbors, as you all know, I have this day been saved—from committing, in my blindness and my stubbornness, a great crime,—for which the Lord be thanked. Unworthy as I am, this day my son has been restored to me, fine and strong, for which the Lord be thanked. And here, the young man brought up as a brother to him, is again among you who have always loved him,"—he turned and took Richard by the hand, and waited a moment; then, getting control of himself, once more continued—"for which again, I say, the Lord be thanked.

"And now let me present to you one whom many of you know already, who has returned to us after many years—one whom in the past I have greatly wronged. Let me here and now make confession before you all, and present him to you as a man—" He turned and placed his hand on Larry's shoulder. "Let me present him to you as a man who can forgive an enemy—even so far as to allow that man who was his enemy to claim him forevermore as—as—brother—and friend,—Larry Kildene!" Again cheers burst forth and again were held back as the Elder continued. "Neighbors—he has sent us back my son. He has saved me—more than me—from ruin and disaster, in these days when ruin is abroad in the land. How he has done it you will soon learn, for I ask you all to come round to my house this night and—partake of—of—a little collation to be prepared by Mr. Decker and sent in for this occasion." The old man's voice grew stronger as he proceeded, "Just to welcome home these boys of ours—our young men—and this man—generous and—"

"You've not been the only one to blame." Larry stepped forward and seized the Elder's hand, "I take my share of the sorrow—but it is past. We're friends—all of us—and we'll go all around to Elder Craigmile's house this night, and help him give thanks by partaking of his bounty—and now—will ye lift your voices and give a cheer for Elder Craigmile, a man who has stood in this community for all that is excellent, for uprightness and advancement, for honor and purity, a man respected, admired, and true—who has stood for the good of his fellows in this town of Leauvite for fifty years." Larry Kildene lifted his hand above his head and smiled a smile that would have drawn cheers from the very paving stones.

And the cheers came, heartily and strongly, as the four men, rugged and strong, the gray-haired and the brown-haired, passed through the crowd and across the town square and up the main street, and on to the Elder's home.

Ere an hour had passed all was quiet, and the small town of Leauvite had taken up the even tenor of its way. After a little time, Larry Kildene and Richard left the Elder and his son by themselves and strolled away from the town on the familiar road toward the river. They talked quietly and happily of things nearest their hearts, as they had need to do, until they came to a certain fork of the road, when Larry paused, standing a moment with his arm across his son's shoulder.

"I'll go on a piece by myself, Richard. I'm thinking you'll be wanting to make a little visit."

Richard's eyes danced. "Come with me, father, come. There'll be others there for you to talk with—who'll be glad to have you there, and—"

"Go to, go to! I know the ways of a man's heart as well as the next."

"I'll warrant you do, father!" and Richard bounded away, taking the path he had so often trod in his boyhood. Larry stood and looked after him a moment. He was pleased to hear how readily the word, father, fell from the young man's lips. Yes, Richard was facile and ready. He was his own son.



CHAPTER XL

THE SAME BOY

Mary Ballard stepped down from the open porch where Amalia and the rest of the family sat behind a screen of vines, interestedly talking, and walked along the path between the rose bushes that led to the gate. She knew Richard must be coming when she saw Betty, who sat where she could glance now and then down the road, drop her sewing and hurry away through the house and off toward the spring. As Larry knew the heart of a man, so Mary Ballard knew the heart of a girl. She said nothing, but quietly strolled along and waited with her hand on the gate.

"I wanted to be the first to open the gate to you, Richard," she said, as he approached her with extended arms. Silently he drew her to him and kissed her. She held him off a moment and gazed into his eyes.

"Yes, I'm the same boy. I think that was what you said to me when I entered the army—that I should come back to you the same boy? I've always had it in mind. I'm the same boy."

"I believe you, Richard. They are all out on the front porch, and Bertrand is with them—if you wish to see him—first—and if you wish to see Betty, take the path at the side, around the house to the spring below the garden."

Betty stood with her back to the house under the great Bartlett pear tree. She was trembling. She would not look around—Oh, no! She would wait until he asked for her. He might not ask for her! If he did not, she would not go in—not yet. But she did look around, for she felt him near her—she was sure—sure—he was near—close—

"Oh, Richard, Richard! Oh, Richard, did you know that I have been calling you in my heart—so hard, calling you, calling you?"

She was in his arms and his lips were on hers. "The same little Betty! The same dear little Betty! Lovelier—sweeter—you wore a white dress with little green sprigs on it—is this the dress?"

"Yes, no. I couldn't wear the same old one all this time." She spoke between laughing and crying.

"Why is this just like it?"

"Because."

He held her away and gazed at her a moment. "What a lovely reason! What a lovely Betty!" He drew her to him again. "I heard it all—there in the court room. I was there and heard. What a load you have borne for me—my little Betty—all this time—what a load!"

"It was horrible, Richard." She hid her flaming face on his breast. "There, before the whole town—to tell every one—everything. I—I—don't even know what I said."

"I do. Every word—dear little Betty! While I have been hiding like a great coward, you have been bravely bearing my terrible burden, bearing it for me."

"Oh, Richard! For weeks and weeks my heart has been calling you, calling you—night and day, calling you to come home. I told them he was Peter Junior, but they would not believe me—no one would believe me but mother. Father tried to, but only mother really did."

"I heard you, Betty. I had a dingy little studio up three flights of stairs in Paris, and I sat there painting one day—and I heard you. I had sent a picture to the Salon, and was waiting in suspense to know the result, and I heard your call—"

"Was—was—that what made you come home—or—or was it because you knew you ought to?" She lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes.

Richard laughed. "It's the same little Betty! The same Betty with the same conscience bigger than her head—almost bigger than her heart. I can't tell you what it was. I heard it again and again, and the last time I just packed my things and wound up matters there—I had made a success, Betty, dear—let me say that. It makes me feel just a little bit more worth your while. I thought to make a success would be sweet, but it was all worthless—I'll tell you all about it later—but it was no help and I just followed the call and returned, hurrying as if I knew all about the thing that was going on, when really I knew nothing. Sometimes I thought it was you calling me, and sometimes I thought it was my own conscience, and sometimes I thought it was only that I could no longer bear my own thoughts—See here, Betty, darling—don't—don't ever kill any one, for the thought that you have committed a murder is an awful thing to carry about with you."

She laughed and hid her face again on his breast. "Richard, how can we laugh—when it has all been so horrible?"

"We can't, Betty—we're crying." She looked up at him again, and surely his eyes were filled with tears. She put up her hand and lightly touched his lips with her fingers.

"I know. I know you've suffered, Richard. I see the lines of sorrow here about your mouth—even when you smile. I saw the same in Peter Junior's face, and it was so sad—I just hugged him, I was so glad it was he—I—I—hugged him and kissed him—"

"Bless his heart! Somebody ought to."

"Somebody will. She's beautiful—and so—fascinating! Let's go in so you can meet her."

"I have met her, and father has told me a great deal about her. I've had a fine talk with my father. How wonderful that Peter should have been the means of finding my father for me—and such a splendid father! I often used to think out what kind of a father I would like if I could choose one, but I never thought out just such a combination of delightful qualities as I find in him."

"It's like a story, isn't it? And we'll all live happily ever after. Shall we go in and see the rest, Richard? They'll be wanting to see you too."

"Let's go over here and sit down. I don't want to see the rest quite yet, little one. Why, Betty, do you suppose I can let go of you yet?"

"No," said Betty, meekly, and again Richard laughed. She lifted the hair from his temple and touched the old scar.

"Yes, it's there, Betty. I'm glad he hit me that welt. I would have pushed him over but for that. I deserved it."

"You're not so like him—not so like as you used to be. No one would mistake you now. You don't look so much like yourself as you used to—and you've a lot of white in your hair. Oh, Richard!"

"Yes. It's been pretty tough, Betty, dear,—pretty tough. Let's talk of something else."

"And all the time I couldn't help you—even the least bit."

"But you were a help all the time—all the time."

"How, Richard?"

"I had a clean, sweet, perfect, innocent place always in my heart where you were that kept me from caring for a lot of foolishness that tempted other men. It was a good, sweet, wholesome place where you sat always. When I wanted to see you sitting there, I had only to take a funny little leather housewife, all worn, and tied with cherry-colored hair ribbons, in my hand and look at it and remember."

Betty sighed a long sigh of contentment and settled herself closer in his arms. "Yes, I was there, and God heard me praying for you. Sometimes I felt myself there."

"In the secret chamber of my heart, Betty, dear?"

"Yes." They were silent for a while, one of the blessed silences which make life worth living. Then Betty lifted her head. "Tell me about Paris, Richard, and what you did there. It was Peter who was wild to go and paint in Paris and it was you who went. That was why no one found you. They never thought that of you—but I would have thought it. I knew you had it in you."

"Oh, yes, after a fashion I had it in me."

"But you said you met with success. Did that mean you were admitted to the Salon?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, Richard! How tremendous! I've read a lot about it. Oh, Richard! Did you like the 'Old Masters'?"

"Did I! Betty, I learned a thing about your father, looking at the work of some of those great old fellows. I learned that he is a better painter and a greater man than people over here know."

"Mother knew it—all the time."

"Ah, yes, your mother! Would you like to go there, Betty? Then I'll take you. We'll be married right away, won't we, dear?"

"You know, Richard, I believe I would be perfectly—absolutely—terribly happy—if—if I could only get over being mad at your uncle. He was so stubborn, he was just wicked. I hated him—I—I hated him so, and now it seems as if I had got used to hating him and couldn't stop."

She had been so brave and had not once given way, but now at the thought of all the bitterness and the fight of her will against that of the old man, she sobbed in his arms. Her whole frame shook and he gathered her close and comforted her. "He—he—he was always saying—saying—"

"Never mind now what he was saying, dear. Listen."

"I—I—I—am afraid—I can never see him—or—or look at him again—I—I—hate him so!"

"No, no. Don't hate him. Any one would have done the same in his place who believed as firmly as he did what he believed."

"B—b—but he didn't need to believe it."

"You see he had known through that Dane man—or whatever he is—from the detective—all I told you that night—how could he help it? I believed Peter was dead—we all did—you did. He had brooded over it and slept upon it—no wonder he refused even to look at Peter. If you had seen Uncle Elder there in the court room after the people had gone, if you had seen him then, Betty, you would never hate him again."

"All the same, if—if—you hadn't come home when you did,—and the law of Wisconsin allowed of hanging—he would have had him, Peter Junior—he would have had his own son hanged,—and been glad—glad—because he would have thought he was hanging you. I do hate—"

"No, no. And as he very tersely said—if all had been as it seemed, and it had been me—trying to take the place of Peter Junior—I would have deserved hanging—now wouldn't I, after all the years when Uncle Elder had been good to me for his sister's sake?"

"That's it—for his sister's sake—n—n—not for yours, always himself and his came first. And then it wouldn't have been so. Even if it were so, it wouldn't have been so—I mean—I wouldn't have believed it—because it couldn't have been you and been so—"

"Darling little Irish Betty! What a fine daughter you will be to my Irish Dad! Oh, my dear! my dear!"

"But you know such a thing would have been impossible for you to do. They might have known it, too, if they'd had any sense. And that scar on Peter's head—that was a new one and yours is an old one. If they had had any sense, they could have seen that, too."

"Never any man on earth had a sweeter job than I! It's worth all I've been through to come home here and comfort you. Let's keep it up all our lives, see? You always stay mad at Uncle Elder, and I'll always comfort you—just like this."

Then Betty laughed through her tears, and they kissed again, and then proceeded to settle all their future to Richard's heart's content. Then, after a long while, they crept in where the family were all seated at supper, and instantly everything in the way of decorum at meals was demoralized. Every one jumped up, and Betty and Richard were surrounded and tumbled about and hugged and kissed by all—until a shrill, childish voice raised a shout of laughter as little Janey said: "What are we all kissing Betty for? She hasn't been away; she's been here all the time."

It was Peter Junior who broke up the rout. He came in upon them, saying he had left his father asleep, exhausted after the day's emotion, and that he had come home to the Ballards to get a little supper. Then it was all to be done over again, and Peter was jumbled up among outstretched arms, and shaken and pounded and hugged, and happy he was to be taken once more thus vociferously into the home that had always meant so much to him. There they all were,—Martha and Julien—James and Bob, as the boys were called these days,—and little Janey—and Bertrand as joyous as a boy, and Mary—she who had always known—even as Betty said, smiling on him in the old way—and there, watching all with glowing eyes, Amalia at one side, waiting, until Peter had her, too, in his arms.

Quickly Martha set a place for Peter between Amalia and herself. Yes, it was all as it should be—the circle now complete—only—"Where is your father, Richard?" asked Mary.

"He went off for a walk. Isn't he a glorious father for a man to fall heir to? We're all to meet at Uncle Elder's to-night, and he'll be there."

"Will he? I'm so glad."

"Yes, Mrs. Ballard." Richard looked gravely into her eyes and from her to Bertrand. "You left after the verdict. You weren't at the courthouse at the last. It's all come right, and it's going to stay so."

The meal progressed and ended amid laughter; and a little later the family all set out for the banker's home.

"How I wish Hester were here!" said Mary. "I did not wish her here before—but now we want her." She looked at Peter.

"Yes, now we want her. We're ready for her at last. Father leaves for New York to-morrow to fetch her. She's coming on the next steamship, and he'll meet her and bring her back to us all."

"How that is beautiful!" murmured Amalia, as she walked at Peter's side. He looked down at her and noted a weariness in her manner she strove to conceal.

"Come back with me a little—just a little while. I can go later to my father's, and he will excuse you, and I'll take you to him before he leaves to-morrow. Come, I think I know where we may find Larry Kildene." So Peter led her away into the dusk, and they walked slowly—slowly—along the road leading to the river bluff—but not to the top.

After a long hour Larry came down from the height where he had been communing with himself and found them in the sweet starlight seated by the wayside, and passed them, although he knew they were Peter and Amalia. He walked lingeringly, feeling himself very much alone, until he was seized by either arm and held.

"It is your blessing, Sir Kildene, we ask it."

And Larry gave them the blessing they asked, and took Amalia in his arms and kissed her. "I thought from the first that you might be my son, Peter, and it means no diminution in my love for you that I find you are not. It's been a great day—a great day—a great day," he said as if to himself, and they walked on together.

"Yes, yes! Sir Kildene, I am never to know again fear. I am to have the new name, so strong and fine. Well can I say it. Hear me. Peter-Craigmile-Junior. A strange, fine name—it is to be mine—given to me. How all is beautiful here! It is the joy of heaven in my heart—like—like heaven, is not, Peter?"

"Now you are here—yes, Amalia."

"So have I say to you before—to love is all of heaven—and all of life, is not?"

Peter held in his hand the little crucifix he had worn on his bosom since their parting. In the darkness he felt rather than saw it. He placed it in her hand and drew her close as they walked. "Yes, Amalia, yes. You have taught me. Hatred destroys like a blast, but love—love is life itself."

THE END