In the faint waning light, through which the snow gleamed strangely, mother and son sat talking. Lady Earle told Ronald of his father's death—of the last yearning cry when all the pent-up love of years seemed to rush forth and overpower him with its force. It was some comfort to him, after all, that his father's last thoughts and last words had been of him.
His heart was strangely softened; a new hope came to him. Granted that the best part of his life was wasted, he would do his best with the remainder.
"And my children," he said, "my poor little girls! I will not see them until I am calm and refreshed. I know they are well and happy with you."
Then, taking advantage of his mood, Lady Helena said what she had been longing to say.
"Ronald," she began, "I have had much to suffer. You will never know how my heart has been torn between my husband and my son. Let my last few years be spent in peace."
"They shall, mother," he said. "Your happiness shall be my study."
"There can be no rest for me," continued his mother, "unless all division in our family ends. Ronald, I, who never asked you a favor before, ask one now. Seek Dora and bring her home reconciled and happy."
A dark angry frown such as she had never seen there before came into Lord Earle's face.
"Anything but that," he replied, hastily; "I can not do it, mother. I could not, if I lay upon my death bed."
"And why?" asked Lady Helena, simply, as she had asked Dora.