It was a wild, stormy night in March; the boisterous wind beat against
the old mansion, and like a suffering human thing, shrieked down the
wide, old-fashioned chimneys.
In a lull of the storm there was a tap at the chamber door. Margie opened
it, and stood face to face with Archer Trevlyn.
"Come in," she whispered, "he is asleep."
"No, I am not asleep," said the sick man; "has my grandson come?"
"He is here," said Margie. "I will leave him with you, dear guardian. Let
him ring for me when you want me."
"Remain here, Margaret. I want you to be a witness to what passes between
us. I have no secrets from you, dear child, none whatever. Archer, come
hither."
Trevlyn advanced, his face pale, his eyes moist with tears. For, having
forgiven his grandparent, he had been growing to feel for the desolate
old man a sort of filial tenderness, and strong in his fresh young
manhood, it seemed terrible to him to see John Trevlyn lying there in
his helplessness and feebleness, waiting for death.
"Come hither, Archer," said the tremulous voice, "and put your hand on
mine. I cannot lift a finger to you, but I want to feel once more the
touch of kindred flesh and blood. I have annoyed you and yours sadly my
poor boy, but death sweeps away all enmities, and all shadows.
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