He stopped and stared at his father, who had been hidden from sight by the swinging door. The surprise was so great that his voice clogged in his throat. Rutter stood like one who had seen an apparition. St. George broke the silence: “It's all right, Harry--give your father your hand.” The colonel made a step forward, threw out one arm as if to regain his equilibrium and swayed toward a chair, his frame shaking convulsively, wholly unstrung, sobbing like a child. Harry sprang to catch him and the two sank down together--no word of comfort--only the mute appeal of touch--the brown hand wet with his father's tears. For some seconds neither spoke, then Rutter raised his head and looked into his son's face. “I didn't know it was you, Harry. I have been hunting you all day to ask your pardon.” It was the memory of the last indignity he had heaped upon him that tortured him. “I knew you didn't, father.” “Don't go away again, Harry, please don't, my son!” he pleaded, strangling the tears, trying to regain his self-control--tears had often of late moistened Rutter's lids. “Your mother can't stand it another year, and I'm breaking up--half blind. You won't go, will you?” “No--not right away, father--we'll talk of that later.” He was still in the dark as to how it had come about. All he knew was that for the first time in all his life his father had asked his pardon, and for the first time in his life the barrier which held them apart had been broken down. The colonel braced himself in his seat in one supreme effort to get himself in hand. One of his boasts was that he had never lost his self-control. Harry rose to his feet and stood beside him. St. George, trembling from his own weakness, a great throb of thankfulness in his heart, had kept his place in his chair, his eyes turned away from the scene. His own mind had also undergone a change. He had always known that somewhere down in Talbot Rutter's heart--down underneath the strata of pride and love of power, there could be found the heart of a father--indeed he had often predicted to himself just such a coming together. It was the boy's pluck and manliness that had done it; a manliness free from all truckling or cringing. And then his tenderness over the man who had of all others in the world wronged him most! He could hardly keep his glad hands off the boy. “You will go home with me, of course, won't you, Harry?” He must ask his consent now--this son of his whom he had driven from his home and insulted in the presence of his friends at the club, and whom he could see was now absolutely independent of him--and what was more to the point absolutely his own master. “Yes, of course, I'll go home with you, father,” came the respectful answer, “if mother isn't coming in. Did she or Alec say anything to you about it before you left?”