He spoke simply yet pungently, a quiet pride giving him something of grandeur and impressiveness. John Gore was listening for the sound of Barbara’s coming. A clatter of hoofs from the court-yard rose on the morning air. My lord heard it and smiled, and then held out a hand to his son. “Hear them, John! I did not expect the rogues so early. Clear, my lad; I don’t want you caught in the tangle. Get behind some of yonder bushes.” John Gore looked hard at his father. “It is not your friends yet,” he said; “wait here; this is my affair.” The sunlight shone on Barbara’s face as she met her husband in the court-yard. He said but one word—“Come”—and led her by the hand into the garden. A tangle of shrubs hid the place where Stephen Gore waited. And thus John Gore and Barbara came upon my lord quite suddenly, and stood before him almost like a pair of runaways returning for a father’s pardon. My lord looked at Barbara and went white to the lips. His arms hung limply. He stooped, and seemed to shrink into himself, his eyes remaining fixed on her as though unable to look away. For the moment the old, frightened, fawning expression came back into his eyes. Then he gave a sudden, inarticulate cry, flung out his hands, and stood groping almost like one struck blind. “John, you have deceived me!” He would probably have fallen had not the son sprung to him and put an arm about his body. “John, you have deceived me! My God, are you against me, even at the last!” “No, no; it is not that.” He glanced at Barbara, for Stephen Gore seemed in a kind of agony. He trembled greatly, leaned heavily upon his son, almost clinging to him as though stricken with the dread that he had been tricked and condemned even at the last by the one man whose love was the one thing left to him. Barbara answered her husband’s glance; her lips were quivering. This strong man’s anguish went to her heart. “John, tell him—” “It is forgiveness.” “A blotting out of the past.” At the sound of her voice Stephen Gore recovered his courage and his self-control. He stood back from his son, putting John Gore’s arm aside, as though he had strength enough to stand alone. He looked at Barbara sadly, yet with thankfulness—the look of a man whose grosser prides were dead. “You are alive, child; thank God for that! The truth of this was hid from me.” She would have spoken, but he held up his hands as though to beg her patience. “You know everything? Does she know the whole truth, John?” The son nodded and turned his face away. My lord spoke on. “Child, I did you and yours a great wrong. I cannot justify myself; out of my own mouth I am judged. These are the words of a man who expects to die. Yet be it said, child, without pride of heart, that I would have gladly ended the thing I called my life that I might wipe out all the past.” There was silence between the three for several seconds. Then Barbara looked at John Gore and he at her.