That a certain rest had come into Rutter's soul could be seen in his face--a peace that had not settled on his features for years--but, if the truth must be told, he was far from happy. Somehow the joy he had anticipated at the boy's home-coming had not been realized. With the warmth of Harry's grasp still lingering in his own and the tones of his voice still sounding in his ears, try as he might, he yet felt aloof from him--outside--far off. Something had snapped in the years they had been apart--something he knew could never be repaired. Where there had once been boyish love there was now only filial regard. Down in his secret soul he felt it--down in his secret soul he knew it! Worse than that--another had replaced him! “Come, you dear old cripple!”--he could hear the voice and see the love and joy in the boy's eyes as he shouted it out. Yes, St. George was his father now! Then his mind reverted to his former treatment of his son and for the hundredth time he reviewed his side of the case. What else could he have done and still maintain the standards of his ancestors?--the universal question around Kennedy Square, when obligations of blood and training were to be considered. After all it had only been an object lesson; he had fully intended to forgive him later on. When Harry was a boy he punished him as boys were punished; when he became a man he punished him as men were punished. But for St. George the plan would long since have worked. St. George had balked him twice--once at the club and once at his home in Kennedy Square, when he practically ordered him from the house.