the airy nothing of its reputation: not the Duries only, but the

hired steward himself.

"Are we to tell Mr. Henry?" I asked him.

"I will see," said he. "I am going first to visit him; then I go

forth with you to view the shrubbery and consider."

We went downstairs into the hall. Mr. Henry sat by the table with

his head upon his hand, like a man of stone. His wife stood a

little back from him, her hand at her mouth; it was plain she could

not move him. My old lord walked very steadily to where his son

was sitting; he had a steady countenance, too, but methought a

little cold. When he was come quite up, he held out both his hands

and said, "My son!"

With a broken, strangled cry, Mr. Henry leaped up and fell on his

father's neck, crying and weeping, the most pitiful sight that ever

a man witnessed. "Oh! father," he cried, "you know I loved him;

you know I loved him in the beginning; I could have died for him -

you know that! I would have given my life for him and you. Oh!

say you know that. Oh! say you can forgive me. O father, father,

what have I done - what have I done? And we used to be bairns

together!" and wept and sobbed, and fondled the old man, and

clutched him about the neck, with the passion of a child in terror.

And then he caught sight of his wife (you would have thought for

the first time), where she stood weeping to hear him, and in a

moment had fallen at her knees. "And O my lass," he cried, "you

must forgive me, too! Not your husband - I have only been the ruin

of your life. But you knew me when I was a lad; there was no harm

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