While the patient had lain helpless and unconscious, Mr. Jerningham had found the MS. of the great poem, and had read, in those carefully-written pages, the secrets of his son’s mind. The perusal of this poem had filled him with pride. He, too, had written verse; but not such verse as this. The grace, the purity of a mind uncontaminated by vice, were visible here, and touched the heart of the weary worldling. “The romance of his own life is written here,” he said. “It is almost a confession. But how unlike that hateful confession which I published at his age! I, whose ambition was to emulate Rousseau--that pinchbeck philosopher who never ceased to be at heart a lackey.” M. de Bergerac and his daughter left Killalochie for Pendarvoch directly the invalid was pronounced out of danger. When he was well enough to be moved Mr. Jerningham conveyed him to Pendarvoch; whither he consented to go; but not without some show of wonderment. “Your friends, M. de Bergerac and his daughter are there,” said Mr. Jerningham. “You are very kind to wish to take me there,” replied the invalid; “but I really think it would be better for me to go back to London, to my Uncle Dan. I am quite strong enough for the journey.” “Indeed you are not! Besides, I have set my heart upon your coming to Pendarvoch.” “You are very good. How long is it since my uncle left this place?” “About five weeks.” “And in that time who has watched and nursed me? For the last week, you, I know. But before that time? I have a vague recollection of seeing you always there--in that chair by the bed. Yes, I had a faint consciousness of your tender nursing. I do not know how to thank you. At Greenlands I used to think you by no means my friend; and yet you have devoted yourself to me for all these weeks! How can I be sufficiently grateful for so much kindness?” “My presence has not been disagreeable to you?” faltered the guilty watcher. “Disagreeable! I should be a wretch indeed if I were not grateful--if I were not deeply touched by so much kindness. Your presence has been an unspeakable comfort to me; your face has grown as familiar, and almost as dear to me, as Uncle Dan’s. Forgive me for having ever thought differently--for having misunderstood you so at Greenlands.” “Forgive me, Eustace,” said Mr. Jerningham, earnestly. “Forgive you! For what offence?” “Do not ask that question. Clasp my hand in yours, so, and say, ‘With all my heart, I forgive you.’” The invalid stared in feeble wonder, but did not repulse the hand that grasped his. “With all my heart, I forgive whatever wrong your prejudice may have done me.” “It has been a deeper wrong than prejudice. Look at these two hands, Eustace; none can deny the likeness there.” Again the invalid stared wonderingly at the speaker. “Look!” cried Mr. Jerningham, “look at these clasped hands.” Eustace looked at the two hands linked together. In every detail of form and colour, the likeness between them was perfect.