Trust in me, Jocelyn." Again his arms went out appealingly: "Jocelyn my son!" But the boy made no move to take the outstretched hands, gave no sign of relenting.

His mind nurtured its resentment--cherished it indeed.
"And Cynthia ?" he asked coldly.
Crispin's hands fell to his sides; they grew clenched, and his eyes lighted of a sudden.
"Forgive me, Jocelyn.

I had forgotten! I understand you now.

Yes, I dealt sorely with you there, and you are right to be resentful.

What, after all, am I to you what can I be to you compared with her whose image fills your soul?
What is aught in the world to a man, compared with the woman on whom his heart is set?
Do I not know it?
Have I not suffered for it?
"But mark me, Jocelyn"-- and he straightened himself suddenly--"even in this, that which I have done I will undo.