“Acknowledge him!” echoed Daniel, scornfully, “do you think he will acknowledge you? Do you suppose that hatred of you has not been his religion? It has. And you would acknowledge him? You break his mother’s heart, and bequeath to him a heritage of shame, and then, one fine day, four-and-twenty years after that poor heart was broken, you meet your son upon the road-side, and it is your caprice to acknowledge him. You stained his fair young life with the brand of illegitimacy. He can refuse to acknowledge a father on whom the law gives him no claim.” “There shall be no question of illegitimacy,” cried Mr. Jerningham, eagerly; “it is in my power to prove him legitimate.” “Yes, by a legal quibble. Do you think he will accept such rehabilitation.” “What other reparation can I make?” “Conjure the dead from their graves. Call back to life the girl whose womanhood you made one long remorse. Restore the country tradesman and his wife, who died of their daughter’s shame. Give back to that young man the years of boyhood and youth, in which he has felt the double sting of poverty and disgrace. Do these things, and your son will honour you.” Mr. Jerningham was silent. “Let me share your watch,” he pleaded presently, in a broken voice. “You are welcome to do that,” answered Daniel; “and when it shall please God to restore him, I will not stand between you and the voice of his heart. Win his affection if you can; no counsel of mine shall weigh against you.” CHAPTER XVI. RECONCILED. THE Aberdeen surgeon arrived late at night, but the setting of the broken arm was deferred till the next day. The patient was now delirious, and Mr. Ramsay, the great man from Aberdeen, having heard the story of St. Kentigern’s Cave, pronounced that rheumatic fever had been induced by cold and exposure in that dismal hermitage. After this came many dreary days and nights, during which the patient hovered between the realms of life and death, tenderly watched by his uncle and Mr. Jerningham, who relieved each other’s guard at his bed-side. Then came a blessed change, and he was pronounced out of danger. The delirium gave place to a languid apathy, in which he seemed faintly to recognize the watchers by his bed, but to be too feeble to interest himself in the affairs of this life. While the patient was still in this stage, Mr. Jerningham persuaded Daniel to return to London, where the ravening editors were clamorous for his presence, and he, yielding to these arguments, left Mr. Jerningham master of the field. This was what the father wanted, to have his son in his own keeping, to see those dim eyes brighten as they looked at him. To be nurse, valet, companion, friend, and some day, when he had won his son’s regard, to say to him suddenly: “Eustace, forgive me! I am your father!”