Margie despatched a servant with a brief note to Archer, informing him of his grandfather’s desire, and then sat down to wait his coming.

It was a wild, stormy night in March; the boisterous wind beat against the old mansion, and like a suffering human thing, shrieked down the wide, old-fashioned chimneys.

In a lull of the storm there was a tap at the chamber door.  Margie opened it, and stood face to face with Archer Trevlyn.

“Come in,” she whispered, “he is asleep.”

“No, I am not asleep,” said the sick man; “has my grandson come?”

“He is here,” said Margie.  “I will leave him with you, dear guardian.  Let him ring for me when you want me.”

“Remain here, Margaret.  I want you to be a witness to what passes between us.  I have no secrets from you, dear child, none whatever.  Archer, come hither.”

Trevlyn advanced, his face pale, his eyes moist with tears.  For, having forgiven his grandparent, he had been growing to feel for the desolate old man a sort of filial tenderness, and strong in his fresh young manhood, it seemed terrible to him to see John Trevlyn lying there in his helplessness and feebleness, waiting for death.

“Come hither, Archer,” said the tremulous voice, “and put your hand on mine.  I cannot lift a finger to you, but I want to feel once more the touch of kindred flesh and blood.  I have annoyed you and yours sadly my poor boy, but death sweeps away all enmities, and all shadows.  I see so clearly now.  O, if I had only seen before!”

Arch knelt by the side of his bed, holding the old man’s withered hands in his.  Margie stood a little apart, regarding the pair with moist eyes.

“Call me grandfather once, my son; I have never heard the name from the lips of my kindred.”

“Grandfather!  O grandfather!” cried the young man, “now that you will let me call you so, you must not die!  You must live for me!”

“The decree has gone forth.  There is from it no appeal.  I am to die.  I have felt the certainty a long time.  O, for one year of existence, to right the wrongs I have done!  But they could not be righted.  Alas! if I had centuries of time at my command, I could not bring back to life the dear son my cruelty hurried out of the world, or his poor wife, whose fair name I could, in my revenge for her love of my son, have taken from her!  O Hubert!  Hubert!  O my darling! dearer to me than my heart’s blood—­but so foully wronged!”

His frame shook with emotion, but no tears came to his eyes.  His remorse was too deep and bitter for the surface sorrow of tears to relieve.

“Put it out of your mind, grandfather,” said Arch, pressing his hand.  “Do not think of it, to let it trouble you more.  They are all, I trust, in heaven.  Let them rest.”

“And you will tell me this, Archer?  You, who hated me so!  You, who swore a solemn oath to be revenged on me!  Well, I do not blame you.  I only wonder that your forbearance was so long-suffering.  Once you would have rejoiced to see me suffer as I do now.”