"My son—my son!"
The mist was clearing from Harry's eyes; a trembling hand held each of his; trembling lips had touched his forehead.
"Father—father—is it really you?"
"By God's mercy—only."
"They said you were drowned!"
"I was saved by a miracle."
"Yet you have kept away from us all these years!"
"It was the least I could do, Harry. The slur was on you and your mother. I had cast it on you; it was for me to remove it; or never to show my face again. God has been very good to me. I will tell you all. I am only sorry I consented to this scene."
Lowndes was kneeling over the prostrate Scrafton, loosening the snuffy raiment, feeling the feeble heart, pouring more whisky into the fallen mouth that reeked of it already.