"Patience--Patience Jewett," replied the other.

Mr. Britton bowed his head with deep emotion, and father and son were

clasped in each other's arms.

When they had grown calm enough for speech Mr. Britton's first words

were of his wife.

"What of your mother, my son,--was she living when you came west?"

"Yes, but her health was delicate, and I am fearful of the effects of my

long absence; it must have been a terrible strain upon her. As soon as I

reached the city this morning I telegraphed an old schoolmate for

tidings of her, and I am expecting an answer any moment."

They talked of the strange chain of circumstances which had brought them

together and of the mysterious bond by which they had been so closely

united while as yet unconscious of their relationship. The summons to

lunch recalled them to the present. As they rose to leave the room Mr.

Britton threw his arm affectionately about Darrell's shoulders,

exclaiming,-"My son! Mine! and I have loved you as such from the first time I looked

into your eyes! If God will now only permit me to see my beloved wife

again, I can ask nothing more!"

And as Darrell gazed at the noble form, towering slightly above his own,

and looked into the depths of those gray eyes, penetrating, fearless,

yet tender as a woman's, he felt that however sweet and sacred had been

the friendship between them in the past, it was as naught compared with

the infinitely sweeter and holier relationship of father and son.

They passed into the dining-room where Mr. Underwood and Mrs. Dean

awaited them, a look of eager expectancy on both faces, the wistful

expression of Mrs. Dean as she watched for the first token of

recognition on Darrell's part being almost pathetic.

Mr. Britton, who had entered slightly in advance, paused half-way across

the room, and, placing his hand on Darrell's shoulder, said, in a voice

which vibrated with emotion,-"My dear friends, Mrs. Dean and Mr. Underwood, allow me to introduce my

son, John Darrell Britton!"

There, was a moment of strained silence in which only the labored

breathing of Mr. Underwood could be heard.

"Do you mean that you have adopted him?" Mr. Underwood asked, slowly,

seeming to speak with difficulty.

"No, David; he is my own flesh and blood--my legitimate son; I will

explain later."

Mrs. Dean and Darrell had clasped hands and were scanning each other's

faces.

"John, do you remember me?" she asked, with trembling lips.

Darrell bent his head and kissed her. "I do, Mrs. Dean," he replied.

She smiled, at the same time wiping away a tear with the corner of her

white apron.

"I don't think I could have borne it if you hadn't," she remarked,

simply; then, shaking hands with Mr. Britton, she added: "I congratulate you, Mr. Britton; I congratulate you both. If ever there

were two who ought to be father and son, you are the two."




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