Lord Earle had kept him, and the man had asked permission to go and meet his old master.
Ronald was pleased to see him; there were a few words of courteous greeting from Lord Earle to all around, and a few still kinder words to Morton.
Once again Ronald saw the old trees of which he had dreamed so often, the stately cedars, the grand spreading oaks, the tall aspens, the lady beeches, the groves of poplars--every spot was familiar to him.

In the distance he saw the lake shining through the trees; he drove past the extensive gardens, the orchards now bare and empty.

He was not ashamed of the tears that rushed warmly to his eyes when the towers and turrets of Earlescourt came in sight.
A sharp sense of pain filled his heart--keen regret, bitter remorse, a longing for power to undo all that was done, to recall the lost miserable years--the best of his life.

He might return; he might do his best to atone for his error; but neither repentance nor atonement would give him back the father whose pride he had humbled in the dust.
As the carriage rolled up the broad drive, a hundred instances of his father's love and indulgence flashed across him--he had never refused any request save one.

He wisely and tenderly tried to dissuade him from the false step that could never be retraced but all in vain.
He remembered his father's face on that morning when, with outstretched hands, he bade him leave his presence and never seek it more--when he told him that whenever he looked upon his dead face he was to remember that death itself was less bitter than the hour in which he had been deceived.
Sad, bitter memories filled his heart when the carriage stopped at the door and Ronald caught sight of the old familiar faces, some in smiles, some in tears.
The library door was thrown open.