“Dannie,” he said, “I am your father. There, sit still; wait till I am through. When you were a baby there was a matter about which your grandfather and I differed. I spoke to him unkindly and in anger. What I told him was not true. I admitted it then, I admit it to-day. He said that no person who had lied to him once should have the opportunity to do so again, and he sent me from his house and forbade me ever to return. I went, leaving you in his custody, knowing that with Aunt Martha also to care for you, you would want for nothing. For thirteen years I have done penance for that lie, but my father has not forgiven me. For thirteen years I have looked forward, day and night, to the time when I should claim you and ask you to come with me, and be my son in fact as well as in name. I am ready to take you now. I want you. Will you come?” It was so sudden, so astounding, that Dannie could not comprehend it all at once. The bewildered look was still in his eyes. “You--are my father?” he asked. “Yes, Dannie.” “Is it true, Gran’pap?” “It is.” The old man, standing with folded arms, his back to the door, his cheeks flushed, his lips set, with lightning veiled under the cold glitter of his eyes, looked the picture of dignified wrath. Dannie turned again to his father. “And--and you lied to Gran’pap?” “Yes, Dannie, I did.” “Is that true, Gran’pap?” “That is true.” The words might have come from lips of marble, they were so precise and passionless. “Father,” exclaimed Charlie, “be just to me! Say that it was the first and last lie I ever told you. Say that afterward I acknowledged my fault, and asked your forgiveness, and you would not listen to me.” “That is true.” Cold as ice, clear as crystal, the answer to his son’s appeal came from the old man’s lips. For a moment there was silence, and then Dannie spoke again to his father. “And you want me to come--to come an’ live with you?” There was a tremor of joy in the boy’s voice at the very thought of such happiness as this. “I do. I want you. I need you. I cannot live my life as I should without you.” “Gran’pap, may I go?” At last the supreme moment had come, the vital question had been put. Abner Pickett still stood there, motionless, with folded arms. “You may choose,” he said, “between him and me. I shall have no divided allegiance. If you go with him, you can say good-by to me to-day for all time.”