He had been proud of his son, he said to himself, and made an earthly idol of him The worship had certainly been as cold and formal as some other worships which look down with considerable contempt on enthusiasm in religion, but he persuaded himself it had been there. So he was punished for his idolatry by the shattering of his idol. In olden times he would have worn a shirt of hair and washed the feet of beggars for his sins; now he strove to put himself right by mortifying not the flesh but the spirit—by trampling out his natural affections, and misinterpreting the will of heaven. He read the letters of his dead wife, which spoke of George again and again. Once he cast them aside with a shudder. It was another wile of the Evil One to lure him into leniency for the transgressor. But gradually his heart softened as memory carried him back to the happiest days of his life, when his sweet Ruth tossed the laughing child upon her knee and held him up for his father’s kiss. It was not long ago—it was to-day. He could see them. The gloomy room faded away, and it was the pleasant summer time. There with fresh-plucked roses in her hand, sat his wife, and George—little George—was clapping his baby hands with delight as ‘pretty mamma’ twined the beautiful buds in her hair. He started up, and held his hands towards the vision, but it faded in an instant, and he was once more alone—a miserable, weak old man, wifeless and childless. ‘No, no!’ he cried, burying his facc in his hands. ‘My heart relents; I cannot do it. She would rise from her grave. Ruth—my poor Ruth—for your dear sake I will forgive him all!’ For a few minutes the old man, a prey to violent emotion, the tears streaming down his face, struggled with himself. The old love he had trampled beneath the heel of supposed duty was beating at his heart and striving to enter. The wall of faith was weak to-night—it gave way, and love marched in a conqueror. With feverish hands he seized the pen, and, taking a sheet of paper, began to write. His pen moved on rapidly—he wrote as though he feared a hand would seize his wrist and stop him. Love had conquered. Squire Heritage wrote that night how, being of sound mind, he did revoke the will made in favour of Ruth Adrian, and give and bequeath all his property to his beloved son George. Then he rang the bell. He would have his signature witnessed at once, lock it up and put it away, lest he might repent at the last moment. He summoned the old butler and one of the servants, who came up wondering at their presence being required. If the master had asked them to stand on their heads they could not have been more surprised than when the squire bade them watch him write his name on a piece of paper, and then write theirs underneath it. The butler felt as if he was committing a midnight crime; but he obeyed, so did the other servant.