"Nay, it must be spoken of now, in the presence of your dead mother and my daughter. I asked you a few minutes since if you had anything to tell me. You answered not in the manner I hoped and expected. I ask you again now. Have you anything to say to me? Is there anything on your mind that it would relieve you to speak of? Think a little. Errors may be repaired; but a time comes when it is too late for reparation. Look at your mother, and say if it is not too late to make reparation for unatoned suffering. If I wrong you in speaking thus to you, I ask your pardon, my boy; but I am speaking with a strong fear upon me--a fear that a life may be wrecked by wrong-doing, as was one very near to you." Alfred, who had listened with eyes averted from the table, caught eagerly at the last sentence. "You _do_ me wrong, grandfather," he said, in tones which he vainly strove to make firm--"a cruel wrong--in speaking in this way to me! I don't understand you. It is not the first time to-night that you have thrown out these insinuations. What did you mean by saying to me that the remorse of a too-late repentance is a bitter experience? And then, saying, God keep me free from crime?" "I repeat it, Alfred. Once more I pray to God to keep you from crime! Once more I say that the remorse of a too-late repentance is the bitterest of experiences!" "I deny your right to say these things to me!" cried Alfred violently. "I deny it entirely. I'll not stand it, grandfather! I shall go!" "Stay!" exclaimed the old man in a tone of command. "I made a promise to your mother to speak to you this night of your father." "My father!" Alfred caught at the table, and his heart beat wildly at the thought of what was to come.