“It is good indeed of you to say so,” he said; “but, Monica—I may call you Monica still, may I not? as I have always thought of you all these long years—you might hear stories to my detriment that would not be untrue. There have been faults and follies and sins in my past life that I would gladly blot out if I could. I have been wild and reckless often. I lost my parents very young, as you know, and it is hard for a boy without home and home influences to grow up as he should do.” Conrad paused, and then added, with a good deal of feeling: “Monica, can a man do more than repent the past? Can nothing ever wipe away the stain, and give him back his innocence again? Must he always bear about the shadow of sorrow and shame?” Monica’s face was grave and thoughtful. She shook her head as she replied: “It is no use coming to me with hard questions, Conrad; I know so little, so very little of the world you live in. Yet it seems to me that it would be hard indeed if repentance did not bring forgiveness in its wake.” “‘Who with repentance is not satisfied, Is not of heaven nor of earth.’” quoted Arthur, lazily. “What is it you have done? Can’t you tell us all the story, and let us judge for ourselves—old friends and playmates as we are?” “I should like to,” answered Conrad, gently. “Some day I will; but do not let us spoil this first meeting with bitter memories. Let it be enough for me to have come home, and have found my friends unchanged towards me. May I venture still to call you my friends?” “To be sure,” cried Arthur, readily; but Conrad’s eyes were fixed on Monica’s face; and she saw it, and looked back at him with her steady, inscrutable gaze. “I do not think I change easily,” she said, with her gentle dignity of manner. “You were my friend and playmate in our happy childhood. I should like to think of you always as a friend.” “Of course,” put in Arthur, gaily; “of course we are all friends, and you must make friends with Randolph, too. He is such a good fellow.” “I have no objection at all,” answered Conrad, with a short laugh. “The difficulty, I imagine, will be on his side. Some men never forget or forgive any one who succeeds in finding them out.” “Oh, we will manage Randolph, never fear. You are ready, then, to make it up if he is?” “Most certainly,” was the ready answer. “He is the nobler man of the two,” said Monica to herself—at least her reason and judgment said so; her instinct, oddly enough, spoke in exactly opposite words; but surely it was right to listen first to the voice of reason. “I say, Randolph,” said Arthur, half an hour later, when the young baronet had taken his departure and the other guest had returned to the invalid’s room. “Conrad is quite willing to make it up with you.” Randolph’s smile was a little peculiar. “Sir Conrad Fitzgerald is very kind.” “Well, you know, it’s always best to make friends, isn’t it? Deadly feuds are a nuisance in these days, don’t you think so?”