"'She an' her mother--a lady deaf an' feeble--were alone, saving the servants in a remote corner o' the house. A sound woke her in the still night. She lay a while listening. Was it her husband returning without his key? She rose, feeling her way in the dark and trembling with the fear of a nervous woman. Descending stairs, she came into a room o' many windows. The shades were up, an' there was dim moon-light in the room. A door, with panels o' thick glass, led to the garden walk. Beyond it were the dark forms of men. One was peering in, his face at a panel, another kneeling at the lock. Suddenly the door opened; the lady fell fainting with a loud cry. Next day the kidnapped boy was born.'" Darrel stopped reading, put the clipping into his pocket-book, and smothered the torch. "It seems the woman died the same day," said he. "And was my mother," the words came in a broken voice. Half a moment of silence followed them. Then Darrel rose slowly, and a tremulous, deep sigh came from the lips of Trove. "Thy mother, boy!" Darrel whispered. The fire had burnt low, and the great shadow of the night lay dark upon them. Trove got to his feet and came to the side of Darrel. "Tell me, for God's sake, man, tell me where is my father," said he. "Hush, boy! Listen. Hear the wind in the trees?" said Darrel. There was a breath of silence broken by the hoot of an owl and the stir of high branches. "Ye might as well ask o' the wind or the wild owl," Darrel said. "I cannot tell thee. Be calm, boy, and say how thou hast come to know." Again they sat down together, and presently Trove told him of those silent men who had ever haunted the dark and ghostly house of his inheritance. "'Tis thy mother's terror,--an' thy father's house,--I make no doubt," said Darrel, presently, in a deep voice. "But, boy, I cannot tell any man where is thy father; not even thee, nor his name, nor the least thing, tending to point him out, until--until I am released o' me vow. Be content; if I can find the man, ere long, thou shalt have word o' him." Trove leaned against the breast of Darrel, shaking with emotion. His tale had come to an odd and fateful climax. The old man stroked his head tenderly. "Ah, boy," said he, "I know thy heart. I shall make haste--I promise thee, I shall make haste. But, if the good God should bring thy father to thee, an' thy head to shame an' sorrow for his sin, forgive him, in the name o' Christ, forgive him. Ay, boy, thou must forgive all that trespass against thee." "If I ever see him, he shall know I am not ungrateful," said the young man. A while past twelve o'clock, those two, lying there in the firelight, thinking, rose like those startled in sleep. A mighty voice came booming over the still water and echoed far and wide. Slowly its words fell and rang in the great, silent temple of the woods:--