In the few days that had elapsed since his interview with Colonel Dundas, Dick had pulled up wonderfully. He had not come on to New York until he felt himself strong enough to face the ordeal before him. He had forgiven his mother from the first. What she did must have been done with the best intentions. The poverty of her son and the dire distress of his father had tempted her to obtain possession of money by forgery. The bank had at once suspected the ne'er-do-well son. The son had been proclaimed dead, and the mother had chosen silence. These things, so unforgivable, were at once condoned by the tender-hearted lad, who only remembered his mother's caresses and her constant anxiety for his welfare from the day of his birth. It was the loss of Dora that stung him most--the thought that she had believed him dead and disgraced. His father's attitude puzzled him more, and he naturally jumped to the conclusion that John Swinton knew nothing; that he was deceived by his wife, like the rest; otherwise, he would have scouted the lie on the instant, no matter what the consequences. Such was the son's belief in his father's integrity. What would his father's reception be? He raised his finger to tap at the window, but paused as this thought occurred to him. The rector could not fail to receive him back from the dead joyfully; but there would be the inevitable reckoning to pay. Even now, the lad hesitated, wondering whether, after all, Colonel Dundas were not right in declaring him better dead. But he was not without hope; and his determination to be set right in Dora's eyes was inflexible. He tapped at the window, gently. The rector started and listened, but hearing nothing further, supposed that he had been mistaken as to the sound. The prodigal tapped again, this time with a coin. There was no mistaking the summons. The rector went to the window, flung back the curtains, and peered out, standing between the window and the light. Dick pressed himself close to the glass, and took off his cap. "Father!" he cried. "Open the window." It was Dick's voice, but not Dick's face. "Open the window." Like a man in a dream, the rector loosened the catch, and opened the casement. "Father--father! It is I--Dick--alive! and glad to be home." The clergyman retreated as from a ghost--afraid. "Don't be afraid of me. The report of my death was all a mistake, father." "Dick--Dick--my boy--back--alive!" The father folded his son to his heart, with a cry of joy and a sudden rush of tears. He babbled incoherently, and gasped for breath. Dick supported the faltering steps to the chair by the desk. Then, he closed the window silently, and flinging his cap upon the table, slowly divested himself of the long ulster. The inevitable pause of embarrassment followed.