"Again I ask you, sir," said Mr. Standish with sudden gentleness, "for a few moments' private conversation."

"No, sir; if you have anything to say, speak out before this young lady.

I took the step of leading Miss Beecham here that she might judge the merits of the case for herself. I am sorry to have to add that the a.s.sertion you have just made, that you were my son's friend, is no recommendation to me. He was unfortunate in his a.s.sociates."

Mr. Standish did not reply. He took out a bunch of keys and fitted one into a drawer. Meg saw him draw out a bundle of letters. He kept his eyes averted from her as he said:

"I shrink from telling the particulars I must now state, or of hinting at an obligation. But I am playing for a great stake--one that is all the world to me; and I see no means of moving you, sir, but by referring to this fact, and bringing evidences of its truth before you."

He laid his hand upon the letters.

"It is your wish, sir, that I should speak before Miss Beecham. Perhaps it is as well that she should hear what I have to say."

"It is my wish. Go on, sir!" said Sir Malcolm fiercely as Mr. Standish paused.

"Your son was adjutant of his regiment. Whatever were his follies and recklessness, he was a good soldier. He was trusted by his comrades, and he was proud of their trust. You were stern with him, sir--I shall not say overstern. It is not for me to judge."

"Go on, sir," said the old man.

"Since his marriage, if you remember, you held no communication with him----"

"If your claim upon me," interrupted the baronet fiercely, "is that you are a relation of the unhappy woman he married, I think you must admit that the fact that I have recognized her daughter, and that I mean publicly to declare her my grandchild, is a reparation which answers all claims and silences all appeals."

"I make no claim upon you. I think I will establish that I am no--" Mr.

Standish paused, then resumed: "If you remember, your son wrote to you shortly before his death a letter that you returned unopened, as you had done others before."

Sir Malcolm did not reply, and for a moment there was a dead silence.

Mr. Standish resumed with difficulty:

"That letter, sir, was to ask you for three hundred pounds, that in a reckless moment he had taken from the money belonging to his regiment, convinced that he would be able to repay it."

Still the old man remained silent as death, looking with a fixed gaze upon the speaker.

"Your son came to me. Dishonor faced him. He told me of his folly. The next day he would be disgraced if he failed to raise the money."

Sir Malcolm drew a heavy breath; he parted his lips as if to speak, but no words came; and he listened intently.

"G.o.d knows, sir," resumed the young man, "that I tell you what follows with the utmost unwillingness. I had the money he needed so sorely, and I let him have it. His honor was saved. His act remained unknown to his brother-officers and to the world, but he felt the stigma too bitterly to live."

The old man sat down and took the proffered doc.u.ments. He read them through hurriedly, and Meg noticed that once he brushed away a tear.

Then he rose, and with a large and liberal action put out a trembling hand to the editor, who clasped it in his.

"Mr. Standish," said the baronet, "you have saved what is dearer to me than life--my family honor. I will do, sir, what I have never done before. I ask your pardon. I acknowledge an obligation to you that I can never repay."

"You can repay it, grandfather," said Meg through tears.

"You can repay it, sir--ay, and br.i.m.m.i.n.g over," said Mr. Standish. "The stake I have played for, as I said, is all the world to me. I love this lady with a love that can never change. I loved her as a child, I love her as a girl, I will love her as a woman all her life. Do not part us!"

"Grandfather, do not part us!" repeated Meg in a voice hoa.r.s.e with pleading. "I will never desert you!"

The old gentleman hesitated. He resumed his seat, and putting his elbow on the table he covered his eyes with his hand. There was anxious silence in the room. At last Sir Malcolm rose, and with a grave dignity he went to Meg, and taking her hand he placed it in that of her lover.

THE END.