So it was that the Hermit, waking from a restless sleep, found by his side a small person with brown curls that he remembered.

"Why, it's my little friend," he murmured, feeling weakly for her hand.

"This seems a queer world--old friends and new, all mixed up."

"I'm so glad you're better, dear Mr. Hermit," Norah said. She bent and kissed him. "And we're all friends--everybody."

"You did that once before," he said feebly. "No one had kissed me for such a long, long while. But mustn't let you."

"Why?" asked Norah blankly.

"Because--because people don't think much of me, Miss Norah," he said, a deep shade falling on his fine old face. "They say I'm no good. I don't suppose I'd be allowed to be here, only I'm an old man, and I'm going to die."

"But you're not!" Norah cried. "Dr. Anderson says you're not!

And--and--oh, you're making a great mistake. Everyone wants you."

"Me!" said the Hermit, in sudden bitter scorn. "No, only strangers like you. Not my own."

"Oh, you don't know," Norah protested. She was painfully aware of the order not to excite the patient, but it was awful to let him be so unhappy! "Dad's not a stranger--he always knew you. And see how he wants you!"

"Dad?" the Hermit questioned feebly. "Is David Linton your father?" She nodded, and for a minute he was silent. "No wonder you and I were friends!" he said. "But you're not all--not even you and Davy."

"No, but--"

He forced a smile, in pity for her perplexity.

"Dear little girl, you don't understand," he said. "There's something even friendship can't wipe out, though such friendship as your father's can bridge it over. But it's always there--a black, cruel gulf. And that's disgrace!"

Norah could not bear the misery of his eyes.

"But if it's all a horrible mistake?" she said. "If everybody knew it--?"

"If it's a mistake!"

The Hermit's hand was on her wrist like a vice. For a moment Norah shivered in fear of what her words might have done.

"What do you mean? For G.o.d's sake, tell me?"

She steadied her voice to answer him bravely.

"Please, you mustn't get excited, dear Mr. Hermit," she said. "I'll tell you. Dad told me all about it before we found you. It's all a terrible mistake. Every one knows you were a good man. Everyone wants to be friends with you. Only they thought you were dead."

"I managed that." His voice was sharp and eager. "I saw the other body in the river and the rest was easy." He struggled for calmness and Norah held a gla.s.s of water to his lips.

"Please don't get excited!" she begged.

"I won't," he smiled at her. "Tell me--does everyone know?"

"Everyone," Norah nodded. There was a step behind her and a sudden light flashed into the Hermit's eyes.

"Davy! Is it true? I am cleared?"

"Years ago, old man." David Linton's voice was husky. "All the world wants to make it up to you."

"All the world--they're only two!" the sick man said. "Do they know?"

"Yes."

"Where are they?"

For a moment Mr. Linton hesitated, not knowing what risk he might run.

"Oh! for pity's sake don't be cautious, David," the Hermit begged. "I'll be calm--anything--only don't refuse a starving man bread! Davy, tell me!"

"They're here, old man."

"Here! Can I--will they--?"

"Ah, we've got to be careful of you, Jim, old chap," Mr. Linton said.

"You've been a very sick man--and you're not better yet. But they're only living on the hope of seeing you--of having you again--of making it up to you."

"And they believe in me?"

"The boy--d.i.c.k--never believed a word against you," Mr. Linton said.

"And your wife--ah, if she doubted, she has paid for it again and again in tears. You'll forgive her, Jim?"

"Yes," he said simply. "I've been bitter enough G.o.d knows, but it all seems gone. You'll bring her, Davy?"

But at the word Norah was out of the room, racing along the hall.

Out in the gardens d.i.c.k Stephenson dug mightily in the hard soil, and his mother watched him, listening always. She heard the flying footsteps on the gravel and turned quickly to meet Norah.

"Mr. Stephenson, he wants you!"

"Is he worse?" d.i.c.k gasped.

"No--I think he's all right. But he knows everything and he wants you both!"

In his room the Hermit heard the steps in the hall--the light, slow feet, and the man's tread, that curbed its impatience, lingering to support them. His breath came quickly as he stared at the door.

Then for a moment they faced each other, after the weary years; each gaunt and wan and old, but in their eyes the light and the love of long ago. The hermit's eyes wandered an instant to his son's face, seeking in the stalwart man the little lad he knew. Then they came back to his wife.

"Mary!"

"Jim!" She tottered to the bed.

"Jim--can you forgive me?"

"Forgive--oh, my girl!" The two grey heads were close together. David Linton slipped from the room.