“There, Samson,” he said, smiling, as they rode home, “you may sheathe your sword, and sharpen your rusty scythe; while you, Fred—what are we to do with you? Send you back to school?”
“No, father, I must be what I am—a soldier still,” said Fred, proudly; “but I hope in peace more than in war.”
“Yes; we have had enough of war for years to come.”
The colonel drew rein that sunny afternoon as they were passing the ruined Hall, and Fred heard him sigh, but he forgot that directly after in his eagerness to get home; and soon after father and son were locked in turn in sobbing Mistress Forrester’s arras.
There was abundance to tell that night as they sat in the old, old room, where mother and son exchanged glances, each silently questioning the other with the eye as to whether the time had not come for telling all; but still they hesitated, till all at once Colonel Forrester exclaimed sadly—
“This is nearly perfect happiness—home and peace once more; but it is not complete. You say Lady Markham and her daughter left a month ago for France?”
“Yes, dearest,” replied Mistress Forrester.
“Ah!” sighed the colonel, “I’d give all I have to know that mine enemy was saved from the horrors of that terrible evening.”
“Will you give your forgiveness, father?” said Fred, rising.
“Forgiveness?”