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that in this mood he would drink； even if he knew that he would in
consequence be in danger of murdering the wife whose letter had made
him weep。 But it was progress； notwithstanding。 He looked up at
Robert as he entered； and then dropped his eyes again。 He regarded
him perhaps as a presence doubtful whether of angel or devil； even
as the demoniacs regarded the Lord of Life who had come to set them
free。 Bewildered he must have been to find himself； towards the
close of a long life of debauchery； wickedness； and the growing
pains of hell； caught in a net of old times； old feelings； old
truths。
Now Robert had carefully avoided every indication that might
disclose him to be a Scotchman even； nor was there the least sign of
suspicion in Andrew's manner。 The only solution of the mystery that
could have presented itself to him was； that his friends were at the
root of itprobably his son； of whom he knew absolutely nothing。
His mother could not be alive still。 Of his wife's relatives there
had never been one who would have taken any trouble about him after
her death； hardly even before it。 John Lammie was the only person；
except Dr。 Anderson； whose friendship he could suppose capable of
this development。 The latter was the more likely person。 But he
would be too much for him yet； he was not going to be treated like a
child； he said to himself； as often as the devil got uppermost。
My reader must understand that Andrew had never been a man of
resolution。 He had been wilful and headstrong； and these qualities；
in children especially； are often mistaken for resolution； and
generally go under the name of strength of will。 There never was a
greater mistake。 The mistake； indeed； is only excusable from the
fact that extremes meet； and that this disposition is so opposite to
the other； that it looks to the careless eye most like it。 He never
resisted his own impulses； or the enticements of evil companions。
Kept within certain bounds at home； after he had begun to go wrong；
by the weight of opinion； he rushed into all excesses when abroad
upon business； till at length the vessel of his fortune went to
pieces； and he was a waif on the waters of the world。 But in
feeling he had never been vulgar； however much so in action。 There
was a feeble good in him that had in part been protected by its very
feebleness。 He could not sin so much against it as if it had been
strong。 For many years he had fits of shame； and of grief without
repentance； for repentance is the active； the divine partthe
turning again； but taking more steadily both to strong drink and
opium； he was at the time when De Fleuri found him only the dull
ghost of Andrew Falconer walking in a dream of its lost carcass。
CHAPTER XV。
FATHER AND SON。
Once more Falconer retired； but not to take his violin。 He could
play no more。 Hope and love were swelling within him。 He could not
rest。 Was it a sign from heaven that the hour for speech had
arrived？ He paced up and down the room。 He kneeled and prayed for
guidance and help。 Something within urged him to try the rusted
lock of his father's heart。 Without any formed resolution； without
any conscious volition； he found himself again in his room。 There
the old man still sat； with his back to the door； and his gaze fixed
on the fire； which had sunk low in the grate。 Robert went round in
front of him； kneeled on the rug before him； and said the one word；
'Father！'
Andrew started violently； raised his hand； which trembled as with a
palsy； to his head； and stared wildly at Robert。 But he did not
speak。 Robert repeated the one great word。 Then Andrew spoke； and
said in a trembling； hardly audible voice；
'Are you my son？my boy Robert； sir？'
'I am。 I am。 Oh； father； I have longed for you by day； and dreamed
about you by night； ever since I saw that other boys had fathers；
and I had none。 Years and years of my lifeI hardly know how
manyhave been spent in searching for you。 And now I have found
you！'
The great tall man； in the prime of life and strength； laid his big
head down on the old man's knee； as if he had been a little child。
His father said nothing； but laid his hand on the head。 For some
moments the two remained thus； motionless and silent。 Andrew was
the first to speak。 And his words were the voice of the spirit that
striveth with man。
'What am I to do； Robert？'
No other words； not even those of passionate sorrow； or overflowing
affection； could have been half so precious in the ears of Robert。
When a man once asks what he is to do； there is hope for him。
Robert answered instantly；
'You must come home to your mother。'
'My mother！' Andrew exclaimed。 'You don't mean to say she's alive？'
'I heard from her yesterdayin her own hand； too；' said Robert。
'I daren't。 I daren't；' murmured Andrew。
'You must； father；' returned Robert。 'It is a long way； but I will
make the journey easy for you。 She knows I have found you。 She is
waiting and longing for you。 She has hardly thought of anything but
you ever since she lost you。 She is only waiting to see you； and
then she will go home； she says。 I wrote to her and said； 〃Grannie；
I have found your Andrew。〃 And she wrote back to me and said； 〃God
be praised。 I shall die in peace。〃'
A silence followed。
'Will she forgive me？' said Andrew。
'She loves you more than her own soul；' answered Robert。 'She loves
you as much as I do。 She loves you as God loves you。'
'God can't love me；' said Andrews； feebly。 'He would never have left
me if he had loved me。'
'He has never left you from the very first。 You would not take his
way； father； and he just let you try your own。 But long before that
he had begun to get me ready to go after you。 He put such love to
you in my heart； and gave me such teaching and such training； that I
have found you at last。 And now I have found you； I will hold you。
You cannot escapeyou will not want to escape any more； father？'
Andrew made no reply to this appeal。 It sounded like imprisonment
for life； I suppose。 But thought was moving in him。 After a long
pause； during which the son's heart was hungering for a word whereon
to hang a further hope； the old man spoke again； muttering as if he
were only speaking his thoughts unconsciously。
'Where's the use？ There's no forgiveness for me。 My mother is
going to heaven。 I must go to hell。 No。 It's no good。 Better
leave it as it is。 I daren't see her。 It would kill me to see
her。'
'It will kill her not to see you； and that will be one sin more on
your conscience； father。'
Andrew got up and walked about the room。 And Robert only then arose
from his knees。
'And there's my mother；' he said。
Andrew did not reply； but Robert saw when he turned next towards the
light； that the sweat was standing in beads on his forehead。
'Father；' he said