Lawrence looked.
For a moment he saw the picture clearly, and then as he stared, it swam off in a sort of mist. He kept his eyes on it and it came back, and gazed gently, radiantly up at him. But he could not speak. He felt his knees giving, his heart hammering. It couldn’t be true! Something was wrong! With fingers that fumbled and shook, he felt for his own case, found it, dropped it, recovered it, and at last managed to open it and place it beside the other.
Then he groaned.
“Eh?” said Mr. Ridgeway, coming back from the dresser. “Lovely, isn’t it?” He looked past Lawrence’s bowed head at the two pictures, and with a great cry, seized them.
“Lawrence...boy...merciful heavens...where did you get this...explain!” came bursting from his lips.
Lawrence gently took his picture, felt under the photograph, and offered the two pieces of paper—the scrap written over with his name and the torn bit of newspaper.
“I was stolen,” he said, his lips almost too dry and trembling for speech. “My brother was drowned. I did not know until just before we set out. I have always had these. A woman said to keep them. She said they would lead me to my people.”
So far Mr. Ridgeway had listened. Then with a great and terrible cry, the cry of a strong man who has been too brave to voice his agony and has borne it for years, he took Lawrence to his heart.
The tears of men and the embraces of men should be sacred, and it was with a feeling that his soul had been washed clean of everything but thankfulness and love that Lawrence found himself sitting beside his father later when they were composed enough to talk. Mr. Ridgeway’s arm about his son’s shoulder still trembled, and their hands were still clasped as though they were afraid of losing each other. Again and again they told each other of the past, again and again Mr. Ridgeway wondered if his wife would ever be able to stand the shock of joy.
It was late when they heard the light footfall of Lady Gray as she passed down the corridor to her room.