“_You, my father!_ Hiram Bradford, the _spy_—the _deserter_—the British _tool_, my _father_! _Oh, God!_” Then both were silent. Douglas bowed his head upon his hands. Bradford leaned back against the wall and panted. His face was deathlike. The red scar upon his cheek was purplish. But he kept his keen eyes immovably fixed upon the bowed form at his side. At last Ross slowly lifted his head; and, extending his hand toward his companion, whispered hoarsely: “Forgive my hasty words. The—the surprise—the shock was almost more than I could bear! For the moment I was dumbfounded—crazed.” The older man eagerly grasped the proffered hand and replied in agitated tones: “I have nothing to forgive, my son. Would to God you could say as much!” “You—are—my—father!” Ross muttered mechanically. “I am John Douglas, your father,” was the convincing reply. Each had partially regained control of his feelings. Now the son said softly: “Tell me all—_all_!” There was intense bitterness in the father’s voice, as he answered: “Yes, my boy, now I’ll tell you everything. The whole truth can’t make you despise me more than you do already—than I despise myself. Are you ready to listen patiently?” Ross nodded; and his father proceeded: “My real name is John Douglas; though for years I have borne the _alias_—Hiram Bradford. I cruelly deserted your mother when you were an infant. We loved each other, but we couldn’t agree. The fault was all my own. Your mother was a sweet-tempered angel; I was a hot-headed brute. In those days I drank heavily. I was unreasonable—abusive; but she meekly bore with me. Her meekness only angered me. It maddened me to meet her reproachful looks. At last I could stand it no longer. Like the base knave that I was, I deserted her and you. I must have been possessed of a devil—I can’t explain my actions otherwise. And the same devil has dogged my footsteps through all the years.” He paused and drew a sighing respiration, ere he continued: “But let me hasten. What use to dwell upon my past mistakes and misdeeds? I went to Canada and entered the service of the English government, as an Indian agent. I partially reformed—I made money in abundance. But I was unhappy; I wanted to return to your mother—to see you. At last I could endure the torture no longer. I set out upon my return journey. All the weary way, I pictured to myself how I should take your mother and yourself in my arms and beg your forgiveness; but fate cheated me. I was doomed to such black and bitter disappointment—to such poignant sorrow as”—his voice faltered—“a remorseful conscience alone can know. I reached the old home. Your mother was dead; you were gone. The neighbors informed me that your uncle had taken you away—they knew not whither.” Again he paused, as though expecting his listener to make some remark. But Ross’s countenance remained stern and impassive. The father cleared his throat and went on: