‘Tell me this, Mr. Blake,’ said the boy; ‘I’m in a bit of a quandary. There is a man I know who’s a villain, but he’s old enough to be my father, and I hear that he’s a clergyman, so I can neither call him out nor lay a stick across his back. What would ye do in my place?’ ‘Faith,’ answered Blake, ‘’tis a troublesome question. ’Twill take thinking over. In the mean time, I’ve news for ye. Ye’re wanted at the Castle.’ ‘Am I?’ said Desmond. ‘And who wants me?’ ‘Mr. Peebles.’ ‘Then tell him,’ said Desmond, ‘that when I enter my father’s doors again ’twill be either to find my mother there, or with her on my arm.’ ‘Sure,’ said Blake, ‘she’s in the carriage at this minute, and going to the Castle with ye. Your troubles are over, Desmond--and hers.’ ‘_You_ have a right to congratulate me on that, haven’t ye?’ asked the boy with scornful anger. ‘Faith! and if _I_ haven’t, who has?’ replied Blake unabashed. ‘And look here, Desmond Conseltine; in regard to the matter ye mentioned just now, sure there’ll be no difficulty whatever. ’Tis not myself that’ll take refuge behind a black coat and a white choker. Twenty paces or a six-foot ring will do for me, and so, my service to ye. ’Twould ease your heart and end the bad blood between us, maybe. But there’s things more important than divarsions o’ that sort on hand.’ Moya’s white face appeared at the carriage window, and Desmond, with a final angry look at Blake, joined her. Blake remounted the box and gave the word for home. The coachman, who had received his instructions from Peebles, made a detour in order to approach the Castle from the back. Moya trembled like a leaf as they approached the house, and clung tight to Desmond’s hand. They found Peebles standing bareheaded at the back door, waiting to receive them. ‘Moya,’ he said--‘I beg your pardon, Lady Kilpatrick, but the old name comes easiest--his lordship has asked for Desmond. He kens that he is his lawful son, and the way he took the news was just joyful to see. He repents his past sin, he’ll welcome the boy back to his hearth and home. But he doesna ken--I hadna the courage to tell him--that you are living. I thought ’twould come best from Desmond. Desmond, lad, be gentle wi’ him! We a’ hae much to forgive each other, and--he’s your father, man, when a’ is said and done. Mak’ your peace wi’ him, and then break it to him as gently as ye can. He’s in the library. I’ll get your mother upstairs cannily into the anteroom, to be at hand. Eh?’ he cried, with a quiver in his voice and a flash of moisture in his eyes which did more than all his entreaties to soften Desmond. ‘Hech, laddie,’ but this is a grand day! I can lay down my old bones in thankfulness, praising God for his mercies. It’s a grand day this, and I never thought to live to see the like!’