“Well, sir, to make a long story short, I’ve been on that sheep ranch ever since, until about six months ago, when a longin’ seized me to come home and take a last look at my own land. I’ve grown to be a well-to-do farmer; I’ve plenty of money, and no one to spend it on or leave it to, unless I give it to you, Master Geoffrey, now that I have found you. Heaven be praised for that, and that you’ve got your mind back! I’ve been to New Jersey, found my place there neglected and all out of repair, but still a thrifty little farm if ’twas well taken care of. I’ve been to Texas for a look at my old ranch there. The man that bought it got rich, sold out, and then went North to live on his money. Then I came on here to see the place where I first found my Margery, and it was nigh this very spot—just there by that clump of spruce, where I was hid when you came—that we plighted our troth. Ah! my girl! my girl!” The poor man broke down completely here, and sobbed like a child, and Geoffrey’s eyes were full of tears, too, as he witnessed his emotion and realized what he must have suffered during the checkered life that he had led. He had been deeply touched by the faithfulness and devotion which he had exhibited in his care of him during all those years while he was such a helpless burden, mentally, on his hands. He saw that the man was naturally honorable and kind-hearted, and that he would never have been guilty of the crime which he had just confessed, but for the misfortunes that led him into evil company and to the use of intoxicating drinks. “I’m a broken-down old man, sir,” Jack said, after struggling hard for self-control, “or I never should blubber like this; but this place brings back those old days when my conscience was free—when life was bright and full of hope before me and my girl, and it seems more’n I can bear. It’s wonderful, though, that I should run across ye here! Oh, sir, I did ye a woeful wrong, in my anger and jealous fit, when ye were a child. I’ve no right to expect it, but ’twould comfort my poor old heart more’n I could tell ye, if I could hear ye say ye don’t lay it up ag’in me.” Geoffrey turned frankly toward the humble suppliant beside him. “I do not, Jack,” he said, heartily; “you were the victim of drink, and were hardly accountable for the deeds of that night; you condemn yourself more than you really deserve, for if you have told me everything just as it occurred, your wife did not die by your hand—her death was caused by an accident.” The man shook his head sadly. “No, no,” he said; “I can’t get it off my conscience that it was murder: for if I hadn’t laid hands on her she might have been living to-day.” “Still it was not willful or premeditated,” Geoffrey persisted. “However,” he added, “I freely forgive you for your share in my misfortune, if that will be any comfort to you.”