“Alice,” said the young man, faintly, “I shall never be all right again.  It is too late.”

“No, it is not too late, Carl,” was the smiling reply, “you have many happy years before you.  You are not strong.  You must have a rest, and then your strength will return and so will your courage.”

Mrs. Albertson came in at this point, bringing a cup of tea and a wafer, and succeeded in getting the patient to drink the tea.  Then the bishop returned quietly and took a chair by the bedside, and soon both ladies retired.

This incident had been a revelation to the slowly acting powers of the bishop’s mind; a quicker perception would have grasped the whole case much sooner, and might have obviated much trouble.  But now the revelation had forced itself upon the unsuspecting mind of the prelate.  Now he fully understood Dr. Marmion’s letter, and, also, the cause of Carl’s fainting.  All his fatherly instincts were aroused, and taking the hand of the revived youth, he said, very tenderly:  “My poor boy.”

“O, Bishop,” sobbed the young man, “Let me go!  Turn me out!  I have been a living lie to you and yours.”

In his rapidly returning strength he arose as he thus spoke.  “Forgive me,” he continued, disconsolately, “and let me get away out of your sight.  I will disgrace you no longer.”  He had secured his hat and moved toward the door, but the bishop gently detained him, saying:  “Wait, Carl.  Do nothing in haste.  If you are sufficiently strong let us walk out into the park.  The fresh air will help you.”

It was a beautiful autumn day.  All around them the scene was bright and peaceful.  The trees were beginning to cast off their leaves.  In the exercise grounds the laughter of the students in their games was heard, emphasizing the happiness of life and the joy of living.  They sat down on one of the rustic seats.  After a few moments of silence, and when Carl seemed to have become more calm, the bishop in a subdued tone said:  “My dear boy, I am glad this hour has come.  You have my sincere forgiveness, as well as my unbroken confidence.  Let that suffice between you and me; I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven, and I love you more than ever.  But, Carl, there is yet another duty which you must perform.  It has been left too long undone already.  It should have had the first place, but it is not too late.”

“I know, I know,” interrupted the youth, desperately, “but it is impossible.  How can I tell my father and mother that their son lives, and that he is a criminal and a liar?  Can I inflict this upon them?  They have by this time passed through the bitterest pang in believing me to be dead.  Why now bring a deeper sorrow to their hearts?”