"Yes, Lynne. I have come back to face the music, but I have brought with me every cent of your money and interest. Can you forgive the great wrong I have done you?" His scarred face worked pathetically, and he stretched out his hands somewhat hesitatingly, with entreaty in his whole bearing. The sick man looked steadily at him for a long moment, then clasped the proffered hand weakly, and murmured, "I forgive!" A deep silence fell over the room; then after a few moments of thought too sacred for words, the invalid asked faintly, "Have you told Thomas and Tabitha?" "Yes." He sighed contentedly, and still holding tightly to the hermit's hand, drifted away into refreshing, health-giving slumber. So it happened that a few days later when strength was flowing back into the injured man's veins, he called his children to him. They went with something like trepidation in their hearts; but one look into the white face on the pillow told them that this was not the same man whom they had known and feared all their lives. It may have been the restored confidence in his friend, it may have been that the fever had burned out the austerity and selfishness of his heart and brought the real fatherly tenderness to the surface. He mutely held out a thin hand to each, and they awkwardly gave him theirs, not knowing what to say and sitting in silent embarrassment on either side of the bed, waiting for him to speak. At last he laid Tabitha's hand on the counterpane, and fumbling beneath his pillow, drew forth a bright gold piece, which he held out to her, smiling sadly at the surprise in her face. "What is this?" she found voice to ask. "Long ago I punished you severely--too severely--and you called me a beast. I think that was the first time I ever recognized how thoroughly beastly I was. I--I wasn't man enough to tell you so, nor to admit how sorry I was for my severity; so after you were asleep, I put this in your hand, thinking it might--make up for my harshness. I suppose it dropped to the floor during the night and rolled into that wide crack in the corner where the bed used to stand. I saw the glint of it this morning when a sunbeam chanced to fall upon it, and it brought back the memory of that other day. Tabitha, I am sorry. Is it too late to forgive me now?" Tom surreptitiously drew his free hand across his eyes; and Tabitha, almost too surprised for reply, squeezed her father's arm in a gentle caress, as she whispered chokingly, "I forgave that long ago. It did seem too great a punishment then, but it taught me a lesson I have never forgotten." "Poor little daughter! What a selfish brute I have been! And I might have made you so happy!" "Don't, Dad!" she pleaded. "I--I--you have made me happy now! The rest doesn't count!"