"Never," moaned Perry.

"Then, forgive me; I should myself have gradually told you the tale;
it might have come up with your growth, inwoven like a mere ghost
story. Did no playmate, no older intimate, not one of your age
striving for the bar, ever whisper to you that I had been deceived,
and that you, my only comfort, were the fruit of the deception?"

"No, sir." Perry's tears seemed to dry in the recollection. "We were
both gentlemen--at least, after we reached this world. No one ever
insulted me nor you! I humbly thank God that, discredited as I may
have been, my conduct to all was so considerate that no one could
obtrude such a truth upon me. Is it the truth? O father!--I must call
you so! it is the only word I know--is this, at last, one of the
dreadful visions of diseased sleep or of insanity? Who am I? What was
my mother? I can bear it all, for now I have seen why you never loved
me."

Perry, pale as death and still of feeble brain, had arisen as he spoke
and made this imploration with only the eloquence of haggard
forgetfulness. The Judge took Perry's hands and supported him.

"My son, have I not earned the name of father? Yes, I have plucked the
poison-arrow from my heart and sucked its venom. I have taken the
offspring of my injurer and warmed it in my bosom. Every morning when
you arose I was reminded of my dishonor. Every night when we kissed
good-night, I felt, God knows, that I had loved my enemies and done
good to them which injured me!"

The young man, looking up and around in the impotence of expression,