Never before had he so veiled the passion in his heart with calm utterance of words. But if his speech was cool, it was determined. He meant what he said to the last degree. He wanted far more from his son than a mere acknowledgment of his fault, and a petition for forgiveness. It was not enough to come to him with bowed head and penitent words. He wanted the prodigal to prostrate himself in the dust at his father’s feet, to yield everything, to receive nothing. Strange he did not know that a Pickett never had done that, never could do it, never would do it; that even in the confession of a fault, the Pickett pride would never humble itself more deeply than honor and conscience might demand. Yet here was this old man, in his own pride and stubbornness, choosing to give up absolutely and forever his choicest living treasure, rather than yield one jot or tittle of the stern law he had laid down thirteen years before. Charlie Pickett was not deceived by his father’s calmness. He well knew that if Dannie came with him it would be outlawry for the boy from the old home; it would be the breaking of every tie that bound him to his grandfather’s heart and hearth. He knew what they had been to each other--those two--could he bend himself to the severance of those sweet relations? Would it not be cruelty to both of them? And yet--and yet he wanted so to have his son. On Dannie’s face the lights and shadows fell alternately. He knew not what to say or to do. How could he choose between these two?--between the father who had come suddenly into his life like a dream of light and sweetness, and the grandfather who had loved him and cared for him, and had been his comrade and playfellow from babyhood. Charlie Pickett, looking on his son’s face, saw there the agony of indecision, and his heart melted. Tears sprang to his eyes, and his voice choked with emotion. “Father,” he said, “I yield. He shall stay with you. It is right, it is just. Some day, when I am old and alone and need him, as you do now, I will call and he will come to me. Go with him, Dannie. Be good to him, as he has been to you. Good-by! Good-by, my lad,--good-by!” He lifted the boy from the bench, clasped him to his breast, kissed him once and again, and then gently placed him at his grandfather’s side. He turned to the door, unclosed it and held it wide open, standing with bowed head and trembling lips and tear-dimmed eyes, while the old man and his grandson, hand in hand, passed out into the corridor. [Illustration: “He held the door wide open while the old man and his grandson passed out into the corridor.”] At the head of the staircase Dannie stopped, turned, and ran swiftly back into the jury room. He leaped sobbing into his father’s arms. “Father!” he cried, “Father, I’m goin’ to bring you an’ Gran’pap together. I want you both. I need you both. I must have you both. I’m goin’ to bring you together if it takes my life to do it. I will--I will!”