Mr. Hamel could not dissemble his sadness at the departure; his doubts and anxiety, which his age made more grievous, appeared plainly. Was it not very imprudent to dismiss wilfully this pastmaster of the assizes? Were they not only too likely to pay for this imprudence? Why make this eleventh-hour change, and stir up trouble and disorganisation in their camp? He formulated these criticisms in a firm and courteous vein, but plainly they were superfluous. He put an end to them, and added on a melancholy note: “My friend, you came in just now with your face illuminated, as if with some inner inspiration. I knew by looking at you that you would not listen to any one. Where had you been?” “To La Vigie,” replied Mr. Roquevillard, who had borne the old man’s reproaches respectfully. “The dead spoke to me there. They did not want a charlatan to weigh their reputation against the faults of one descendant.” “The dead?” “Yes, my dead. The dead who founded my race, the dead who have maintained it. They shall be the guerdon of our house in to-morrow’s trial. From the first of my name, down to my firstborn Hubert, they have sacrificed so much in the common good; would you have their sacrifices not counted?” Mr. Hamel reflected, then rose. “I believe in the law of reversion, and I understand. But will the jurors?” “Indeed they must,” replied his host, with such assurance that the old man’s doubts were stilled by it. “Something is working out in you,” he said, “and it acts on those you talk with and convinces them. Yes, your defence of your son will be better than that of any other advocate. You have the will and the authority. It will be an honour for me to assist you to-morrow. Good-bye. I will go now and let you work.” He draped his shabby overcoat over his thin shoulders, and with a suddenly furtive air made for the door, his host following him. “Margaret!” called Mr. Roquevillard, after having let the president out. The girl was waiting in the next room for the moment when her father should be ready for her, and appeared at once. “Here I am.” “Come in. I want to talk with you.” He led her into his study and questioned her rapidly. “You went to see Maurice in prison?” “Yes, father; we cried together.” “Cried? Yes, my heart is broken, too. Yet I don’t cry. To-morrow night I shall be free to weep my fill; till then I shall not shed a tear.” Margaret was a little frightened by the uplifted look that lightened and rejuvenated the dear face, on which she had seen so many disasters leave their mark; but she profited by it promptly to complete her work of reconciliation. “Father, Maurice longs for his place again in your heart.” “He has never lost it.” “I knew it. Do you forgive him?” “I forgave him a long time ago.” “Ah!” “The evening he came back, little girl. Did you doubt your father?” “Oh, no, father. But why not say so to him?” “He hasn’t asked me to.”