It was about the hour of five o’clock in the afternoon, and being winter it was already dusk, when I came at last to my native place, and rode up to the gate of my father’s house.

I had journeyed down as far as Norwich in company with my cousin Rupert, who was on his way to Lynn, and with my faithful friend, old Muzzy, who had sworn never to leave me, and whom I was not less loth to part with. And finding myself, as I came back into that country where I was born, utterly overmastered by a strong passion of home-sickness, I had no sooner procured comfortable lodgings for my companions in the Maid’s Head Inn, of Norwich, than I got upon horseback and rode over by myself to look upon my father and mother again.

But as I came towards the house, the greater my longing was to enter it again, so much the more was I daunted by a fearful apprehension of the reception [Pg 313]I should meet with, as well as of the changes which might have been wrought during my absence. So that at the last I dared not ride up boldly to the door, but came along softly, and dismounted and tied my horse to the outer gate. After which I slipped inside quietly, and round the side of the house to the window of the great parlour, through which I could see the warm glow of a fire illuminate the wintry mist without.

When I had come to the window I raised myself up till my head was on a level with the bottom panes, and looked within.

The room held four persons. On one side of the fire sat my father, seeming to be much older than I remembered him, in his great arm-chair, with pillows at the back. Standing up on the opposite side of the hearth was a figure which I quickly recognised for Mr. Peter Walpole, though his back was towards me. It was Saturday night, and he had plainly arrived a short time before me, from Norwich. Between the two was my mother, sitting placidly as of old, and unchanged except for a wistful sadness in her eyes, which it smote me to the heart to notice, and beside her a young woman, scarce more than a girl, with a singular sweet expression on her face, who was at first strange to me.

Mr. Walpole was speaking when I first looked in upon them.

“We are like to have more news from the East Indies. The Norwich Journal announces that a [Pg 314]Company’s ship has entered the Thames, bringing news of a great victory over the Moors of Bengal.”

My mother looked round sharply, and cried out—

“Tell me at once, Mr. Walpole, if you have heard anything of our boy?”

The good old man shook his head.

“No, no, ma’am, there is no news of that sort. I fear it will be long before we hear of him. Indeed, it is but a chance that he is out in the East Indies at all. We did but hear a rumour that he had been seen in Calcutta.”

My mother let her head droop upon her breast. The girl bent over to her and laid her hand upon my mother’s shoulder.

“Don’t let yourself think that Athelstane has come to harm,” she said in a sweet, clear voice. (And if I had not recognised the face I recognised the voice. It was my little playmate, Patience Thurstan.) “I have a faith which makes me sure that he is still alive, and will some day come back to us again.”

“No!” It was my father’s voice I heard, coming sternly from where he sat upright in his chair. “He will not come back here. He left this house of his own free will, left it in treachery and deceit. He has cast its dust from off his feet, and this is his home no more.”

My heart sank within me at these bitter words. But Patience pleaded for me still.

“Ah, but he will return, I know he will, and if he does you will forgive him, won’t you, Mr. Ford? [Pg 315]After all he was but a boy when he ran away, too young to know what he was doing. How can we tell what suffering he has gone through since, how often he has repented of what he did, and longed to come back and be forgiven.”

Mr. Peter Walpole gave a groan.

“It is I was to blame, as much as the boy, come, brother Ford. Remember how I held out for that premium with him. Not but what the sum I named was just, mind you; but I loved the lad and would have taken him without a premium at all, rather than he should have gone wandering about the world, to be murdered by heathen men and cannibals.”

I cannot express how surprised and touched I was to hear Mr. Walpole speak thus of me. For I had ever regarded him as a cold, hard man, with no affections beyond money and religion. I looked anxiously for my father’s reply.

“Nay, you were in no wise to blame, if you considered that what you asked was your right, though to my mind it savoured of extortion. It is my unhappy son whom I cannot excuse. Had he but come to me, and told me what was in his heart, it would have gone hard but I would have provided for him in some honest career. But to let himself be enticed away by pirates, as there is little doubt they were, and to dissemble his flight with falsehood, that was unworthy of a son of mine, and cannot be atoned for.”

[Pg 316]

He gave a glance, half angry, half questioning, at my mother, as he concluded. I did the same, but was surprised to observe that her face was returned to its former placid composure, and she seemed not to heed my father’s stern expressions.

Poor little Patience took them more to heart, and the tears shone in her eyes.

“Don’t say you won’t forgive him!” she implored. “Think, for aught we know he may now be pining in a Moorish dungeon, or lying wounded on the battle-field. Oh, Mr. Ford, he was your only son, and you loved him—you must love him still!”

“Silence, girl!” cried my father, very fierce. “How dare you tell me I love a rebellious child! I should wrong my conscience, and be false to my profession as a Christian man, if I were weak enough to do what you say.”

Patience turned and appealed to my mother.

“Won’t you speak to him, mother? Why do you sit there so quietly? You love Athelstane as much as—as much as any one.”

My mother cast a tender glance at my father.

“Hush, child! There is no need to speak. Athelstane’s father forgave him long ago.”

I saw my father start and tremble.

“Woman! What is it you say? What do you know?” he exclaimed. “You saw me cross his name out of the Bible with my own hand!”

“Yes, dear,” my mother answered very softly, [Pg 317]“but you wrote it in again that very night, when you thought I was asleep.”

And rising out of her chair she crossed over and took down the book from where it had lain those three years and more, and opened the page where, as I have often seen it since, my name was written in again in large letters, and underneath in a shaken hand, the words, “Oh, Athelstane, my son, my son!”

Then, whether because of the flickering of the firelight, or the steam of my breath upon the pane, I ceased to see very distinctly, and came away from the window, and went round to the door, where I gave a loud knock.

The door was opened by Patience, and seeing befor............