His uncle taken care of—­(his father had kept on to Moorlands to tell his mother the good news)—­Harry mounted the stairs to his old room, which Pawson had generously vacated.

The appointments were about the same as when he left; time and poverty had wrought but few changes.  Pawson, had moved in a few books and there was a night table beside the small bed with a lamp on it, showing that he read late; but the bureau and shabby arm-chair, and the closet, stripped now of the young attorney’s clothes to make room for the wanderer’s—­(a scant, sorry lot)—­were pretty much the same as Harry had found on that eventful night when he had driven in through the rain and storm beside his Uncle George, his father’s anathemas ringing in his ears.

Unconsciously his mind went back to the events of the day;—­more especially to his uncle’s wonderful vitality and the blissful change his own home-coming had wrought not only in his physique, but in his spirits.  Then his father’s shattered form, haggard face, and uncertain glance rose before him, and with it came the recollection of all that had happened during the previous hours:  his father’s brutal outburst in the small office and the marvellous effect produced upon him when he learned the truth from Alec’s lips; his hurried departure in the gray dawn for the ship and his tracing him to Jemima’s house.  More amazing still was his present bearing toward himself and St. George; his deference to their wishes and his willingness to follow and not lead.  Was it his ill-health that had brought about this astounding reformation in a man who brooked no opposition?—­or had his heart really softened toward him so that from this on he could again call him father in the full meaning of the term?  At this a sudden, acute pain wrenched his heart.  Perhaps he had not been glad enough to see him—­perhaps in his anxiety over his uncle he had failed in those little tendernesses which a returned prodigal should have shown the father who had held out his arms and asked his forgiveness.  Why was he not more affected by the sight of his suffering.  When he first saw his uncle he had not been able to keep the tears back—­and yet his eyes were dry enough when he saw his father.  At this he fell to wondering as to the present condition of the colonel’s mind.  What was he thinking of in that lonely drive.  He must be nearing Moorlands by this time and Alec would meet him, and later the dear mother—­and the whole story would be told.  He could see her glad face—­her eyes streaming tears, her heart throbbing with the joy of his return.

And it is a great pity he could not have thus looked in upon the autocrat of Moorlands as he sat hunched up on the back seat of the carryall, his head bowed, the only spoken words being Matthew’s cheery hastening of his horses.  And it is even a greater pity that the son could not have searched as well the secret places of the man’s heart:  such clearings out of doubts and misgivings make for peace and good fellowship and righteousness in this world of misunderstanding.