Again the boy’s voice lowered to a whisper, “Sometimes Pete says it must be God, ‘cause he’s so good.  Dad says God is good an’ that he takes care of folks, an’ he sure does that.  ’Twas him that scared Wash Gibbs an’ his crowd that night.  An’ he sent the gold to you, Dad; God’s gold it was; he’s got heaps of it.  He killed that panther, too, when it was a goin’ to fight Young Matt.  Pete knows.  You see, Dad, when Pete is with him, I ain’t nobody no more.  I’m just Pete then, an’ Pete is me.  Funny, ain’t it?  But he says that’s the way it is, an’ he sure knows.”

The two friends listened with breathless interest.  “And what does Pete call him?” asked the doctor.

“Pete calls him father, like Dad calls God.  He talks to God, too, like Dad does.  Do you reckon God would talk to God, mister?”

With a cry the shepherd reeled.  The doctor caught him.  “Strong, Daniel, strong.”  Pete drew away from the two men in alarm.

The old scholar’s agitation was pitiful.  “David, David; tell me, what is this thing?  Can it be—­my boy—­Howard, my son—­can it be?  My God, David, what am I saying?  He is dead.  Dead, I tell you.  Can the dead come back from the grave, David?” He broke from his friend and ran staggering toward the cabin; but at the door he stopped again.  It was as if he longed yet feared to enter, and the doctor and the boy came to his side.  Without ceremony Pete pushed open the door.

The room was furnished with a cupboard, table and small cook stove.  It was evidently a living room.  Through a curtained opening at the right, a light showed from another apartment, and a voice called, “Is that you, Pete?”

A look of pride came into the face of the lad, “That’s me,” he whispered.  “I’m Pete here, an’ Pete is me.  It’s always that way with him.”  Aloud, he said, “Yes, Father, it’s Pete.  Pete, an’ Dad, an’ the other man.”  As he spoke he drew aside the curtain.

For an instant the two men paused on the threshold.  The room was small, and nearly bare of furniture.  In the full glare of the lamp, so shaded as to throw the rest of the room in deep shadow, hung a painting that seemed to fill the rude chamber with its beauty.  It was the picture of a young woman, standing by a spring of water, a cup brimming full in her outstretched hand.

On a bed in the shadow, facing the picture, lay a man.  A voice faltered, “Father.  Dr. Coughlan.”

CHAPTER XXXIX.

A matter of hours.

Father—­Father; can—­you—­can—­you—­forgive me?”

The man on his knees raised his head.

“Forgive you, my son?  Forgive you?  My dear boy, there has never been in my heart a thought but of love and sympathy.  Pain there has been, I can’t deny, but it has helped me to know what you have suffered.  I understand it now, my boy.  I understand it all, for I, too, have felt it.  But when I first knew, even beneath all the hurt, I was glad—­glad to know, I mean.  It is a father’s right to suffer with his child, my son.  It hurt most, when the secret stood between us, and I could not enter into your life, but I understand that, too.  I understand why you could not tell me.  I, too, came away because I was not strong enough.”