"YOUR SON."


When day broke over the bleak sand-hills, the guests had departed from
Mr. Thompson's banquet-halls. The lights still burned dimly and coldly
in the deserted rooms,--deserted by all but three figures, that huddled
together in the chill drawing-room, as if for warmth. One lay in drunken
slumber on a couch; at his feet sat he who had been known as Charles
Thompson; and beside them, haggard and shrunken to half his size, bowed
the figure of Mr. Thompson, his gray eye fixed, his elbows upon his
knees, and his hands clasped over his ears, as if to shut out the sad,
entreating voice that seemed to fill the room.

"God knows I did not set about to wilfully deceive. The name I gave that
night was the first that came into my thought,--the name of one whom
I thought dead,--the dissolute companion of my shame. And when you
questioned further, I used the knowledge that I gained from him to touch
your heart to set me free; only, I swear, for that! But when you told
me who you were, and I first saw the opening of another life before
me--then--then--O, sir, if I was hungry, homeless, and reckless, when
I would have robbed you of your gold, I was heart-sick, helpless, and
desperate, when I would have robbed you of your love!"

The old man stirred not. From his luxurious couch the newly found
prodigal snored peacefully.

"I had no father I could claim. I never knew a home but this. I was
tempted. I have been happy,--very happy."

He rose and stood before the old man. "Do not fear that I shall come