As the echo of Todd’s steps faded away and he began to realize that he was alone, there crept over him for the first time in years the comforting sense that he was once more under his own roof—­his again and all that it covered—­all that he loved; even his beloved dogs.  He left his chair and with a quick indrawing of his breath, as if he had just sniffed the air from some open sea, stretched himself to his full height.  There he stood looking about him, his shapely fingers patting his chest; his eyes wandering over the room, first with a sweeping glance, and then resting on each separate object as it nodded to him under the glow of the candles.

He had come into his possessions once more.  Not that the very belongings made so much difference as his sense of pride in their ownership.  They had, too, in a certain way regained for him his freedom—­freedom to go and come and do as he pleased untrammelled by makeshifts and humiliating exposures and concealments.  Best of all, they had given him back his courage, bracing the inner man, strengthening his beliefs in his traditions and in the things that his race and blood stood for.

Then as a flash of lightning reveals from out black darkness the recurrent waves of a troubled sea, there rushed over him the roll and surge of the events which had led up to his rehabilitation.  Suddenly a feeling of intense humiliation and profound gratitude swept through him.  He raised his arms, covered his face with his hands, and stood swaying; forcing back his tears; muttering to himself:  “How good they have been—­how good, how good!  All mine once more—­wonderful—­wonderful!” With a resolute bracing of his shoulders and a brave lift of his chin, he began a tour of the room, stopping before each one of his beloved heirlooms and treasures—­his precious gun that Gadgem had given up—­(the collector coveted it badly as a souvenir, and got it the next day from St. George, with his compliments)—­the famous silver loving cup with an extra polish Kirk had given it; his punch bowl—­scarf rings and knick-knacks and the furniture and hangings of various kinds.  At last he reached the sideboard, and bending over reread the several cards affixed to the different donations—­Mrs. Cheston’s, Mrs. Horn’s, Miss Clendenning’s, and the others.  His eye now fell on the lone bottle—­this he had not heretofore noticed—­and the note bearing Mr. Kennedy’s signature.  “I send you back, St. George, that last bottle of old Madeira, the Black Warrior of 1810—­the one you gave me and which we were to share together.  I hadn’t the heart to drink my half without you and so here is the whole and my warmest congratulations on your home-coming and long life to you!”

Picking up the quaint bottle, he passed his hand tenderly over its crusted surface, paused for an instant to examine the cork, and held it closer to the light that he might note its condition.  There he stood musing, his mind far away, his fingers caressing its sides.  All the aroma of the past; all the splendor of the old regime—­all its good-fellowship, hospitality, and courtesy—­that which his soul loved—­lay imprisoned under his hand.  Suddenly one of his old-time quizzical smiles irradiated his face:  “By Jove!—­just the thing!” he cried joyously, “it will take the place of the one Talbot didn’t open!”