Guly thought of Blanche, and his heart bounded; but the next moment his own noble self came back, and he answered promptly: "I will gladly be to you, Mr. Delancey, the son you desire. I will love you, cherish you; do as a child should do toward a parent. But your wealth I cannot take. Let me see that distributed between those children who were disinherited by your wounded pride, and I shall be happy and contented in performing those duties which belong to you, from which you so cruelly cut yourself off." "Children? _my_ children? I have none." "Where is Clinton's wife and his little son? Have they no claim upon your kindness?" "It may be, it may be." "And Clinton himself, he has been pardoned out, and is wasting his young life to gather a pittance which you could so easily bestow." "Has he not disgraced and shamed me?" "Pardon me, my friend; but was not the primal fault your own? Was he not driven to his desperate course by a father's pride and unkindness?" "It may be, oh, it may be." "Write their names upon that scroll from whence they have been crossed, and restore them once more to their rights and happiness." "And leave you poor?" "I am better accustomed to poverty, and can fight my way while I have strength and God's help." Mr. Delancey drew some papers from his desk and spread them before him. "Since you so desire, my will shall be altered; I had hoped to make you happy in the possession of my wealth; if it will make you happier to see it in the possession of others, it shall be done. Young man, you have acted nobly." The merchant bent over his desk and wrote rapidly for some time. Lifting his head at last, he called Guly to affix his name, then folded and put them once more out of sight. "There," said he, "it is done; if any error lay there, I have done all in my power to repair it now." "And you will receive your reward." The merchant said nothing, but sat with his head leaning on his hand. "I cannot tell," said he, "what can have put such thoughts into my mind; perhaps, 'tis because I am growing old they come there; but I have been thinking of the other side of the river to-day, the River of Life." "My dear friend," said Guly, turning suddenly and taking the merchant's hand respectfully in his; "I am heartily glad that your thoughts have been turned seriously in this direction. It is a subject which ought to frequently intrude upon our minds, and I am inclined to think, that whether our passage across that river be pleasant or painful, lies much with ourselves. We should live to die, even as we would die to live." Delancey shook his head. "I have lived many years," said he, with a sad look which Guly never remembered to have seen in that hard face before, "and to-day, for the first time, the thought has forced itself upon me, that I have lived to very little purpose. I have had no aim for life, and the account of my stewardship here below must fall far short of what is required."