Mr. Manners sat alone in Dr. Perriera's living-room, awaiting the arrival of his son. The last twenty-four hours had been the most pregnant in his life; in a few minutes his fate would be decided; in a few minutes he would know whether the years that remained to him would be brightened by love, or made desolate by loneliness--loneliness in which reigned a terror and despair he had never yet experienced. Hitherto he had been a law unto himself; hitherto he had borne the fate he had courted with a stern, implacable spirit, bearing with bitter resolve the burden he had inflicted upon himself. There had been no resignation in his soul to soften his sufferings, and he had not sought the consolation which charity or religion would have shed upon him. His heart had been as a sealed box, into which no ray of light had entered; all was dark and desolate. He would soon learn whether this would continue to be his fate. Some savage comfort had come to him in the past from the belief that he was in the right, and Kingsley in the wrong, but this would be denied to him now. The thought had occasionally intruded itself that Kingsley would come to him as a suppliant, begging for mercy and forgiveness; but the positions were reversed; it was he, not his son, who was the suppliant; it was he, not his son, who pleaded for forgiveness. Each moment seemed prolonged. "He refuses to come," thought the repentant man. "I am to my only child as one who is dead. It is a just punishment." It was in accordance with his character that he should recognize the justice of the position in which he stood. When he heard footsteps in Dr. Perriera's shop he rose to his feet and looked towards the door as a criminal might, awaiting his sentence. The door opened, and Kingsley entered. His face was radiant; a tender light shone in his eyes. "Why, father!" cried Kingsley, and opened his arms. "Thank God!" He did not speak the words aloud; they were spoken by his grateful heart as he pressed his son to his breast. Then he gently released himself, and gazed with tearful eyes upon the son he had turned from his home. Kingsley was much altered. His hair was grayer than that of his father; his face was worn and thin; but the tender, whimsical spirit of old dwelt in his eyes. At the present moment it was only the sympathetic chords in his nature which found expression. "I knew you would come, father," said Kingsley, and at the tender utterance of the word Mr. Manners's heart was stirred by a new-born joy; "I always said you would come to us one day. And Nansie, too; she never wavered in her belief that we should see you. 'The time will be sure to arrive,' she often said to me, 'when we shall be reunited; and when your dear father comes to us, we have a home for him.' Yes, father, our home is yours. A poor one, but you will not mind that. It needs but little for happiness, and we have been happy, very happy."