“My boy,” said the colonel, holding out his hand to him, “can you own your father after all that you have heard?—can you forgive the deception of my early years—my moral cowardice in turning my back upon you at Saratoga—and let me have the satisfaction of repairing, as far as may be, the hardships of your youth? My debt of gratitude to your other father”—with a glance at Mr. Huntress—“I can never repay.” Geoffrey warmly grasped that extended hand. “You have made my heart more glad than I can tell you, sir,” he said. “I can forget—I can overlook everything, now that I know my mother was your loved and honored wife. I came here fearing the worst—fearing that a dreadful stigma rested upon my birth—that I was not entitled to an honorable name.” “You are entitled to much more than that, Geoffrey,” Colonel Mapleson returned, smiling, although his lips trembled and his eyes were full of tears; “there is a handsome fortune awaiting your disposal.” “A fortune!” said the young man, wonderingly. “Yes, inherited through your mother from that very same old miser—Robert Dale—of whom you have heard so much this evening.” “How can that be?” Geoffrey asked, while Mrs. Mapleson uttered an exclamation of surprise. “You shall know very soon; but first shake hands with my wife,” his father responded, presenting Mrs. Mapleson. “You are, indeed, very much like my son,” she murmured, as she gave him her hand; “and, believe me,” she added, with touching humility, “I am rejoiced to have you restored to my husband, even at the expense of the trying confessions and revelations of this evening.” Geoffrey respectfully raised her hand to his lips, and the act conveyed, far better than words could have done, the sympathy he felt for the suffering which she had endured. She then bade Mr. Huntress good-night, after which her husband led her from the room. He accompanied her to her own door. “Good-night, Estelle,” he said, gently, “I hope you will go directly to bed and try to sleep.” She turned suddenly—that proud, imperious woman, who, for more than twenty years, had repressed every sign of affection for him—and threw herself upon his breast. “Oh! William, say that you do not quite hate me for what I have told you to-night!” she cried, in an agonized tone. Her husband looked astonished at her act; then his face softened, his eyes lighted with sudden joy. “Why, my wife? I believe you almost love me after all! Do you, Estelle?” he eagerly questioned; “do I possess any more of your heart now than I did when you married me, or has it been a continual struggle all along to be a good wife to me?” She was sobbing like a child, now; the haughty, indomitable spirit that had upheld her so long was subdued at last. “I have not dared to let you see how much of my heart you have won; you know you told me you did not entertain a lover’s affection for me, and I would not force mine upon you,” she confessed, with her face still hidden upon his breast.