The old man fairly broke down. Desmond took his hand and pressed it, with the tears in his own eyes, and it was in a much kindlier mood than that in which he had entered the house that he mounted the stairs leading to the library. He stood for a minute outside the door. His breath was heavy, and the beating of his heart filled his ears like the pulse of a muffled drum. When he knocked, Kilpatrick’s voice answered from within, bidding him enter. The old man was standing near the window, with the light streaming on his face, which was very worn and haggard. Desmond thought even that his hair had whitened a little since he last saw him, though so short a time had elapsed. Kilpatrick advanced a pace or two with outstretched hands, and then paused with bent head. A strange mingling of many nameless and some nameable emotions welled up in Desmond’s heart--memories of a thousand kindnesses and generosities, pity for the proud man humbled--and before he knew it his arms were round the old man’s neck, and they were mingling their tears together. Kilpatrick was terribly agitated. ‘My son, my son!’ was all he could say for a time. He repeated the words again and again, each time more passionately, as if at this moment their wonderful significance had become dear to him for the first time. ‘You forgive me, Desmond?’ The boy took the gray head between his hands, and kissed his father on the forehead, wetting his face with his tears. ‘It is more than I deserve,’ said the old man. ‘I was a scoundrel, a villain! I broke your mother’s heart, Desmond, the sweetest, purest heart that ever beat. Ye can’t forgive me for that! Nothing can ever take that load from my heart, nothing, till I die and she asks God to pardon me.’ ‘Father!’ said Desmond. ‘I have strange news for you. Are you well and strong enough to bear it? ‘Nothing can hurt me now,’ replied Kilpatrick. ‘You don’t know what it is,’ replied Desmond. ‘I’m afraid ’twill be a dreadful shock to you at first, but a happy one after, I hope.’ ‘Well,’ said the father, with a faint touch of his old quickness of temper, ‘what is it? Speak out, my boy, and tell me. Some scrape you’ve got into, eh? Well, that’s forgiven before you tell me.’ ‘You regret the past?’ asked Desmond. ‘You would make amends for it to the utmost extent in your power?’ ‘I _will_ make amends for it, Desmond. There is nothing you can ask me I will not do, no burden that you can lay upon me that I will not gladly bear.’