“I ought to tell you, sir—”
“Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,” said the old man. “I know that you can’t have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You’ve been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were.”
“I hope so, uncle.”
“And you don’t believe that I ever was your enemy?”
“I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and—and—”
“That’s enough. P’r’aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven’t got to go again?”
“No, uncle.”
“Then God bless you, my boy! I’m glad to have you back.”
Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.
It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt’s suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don’s conduct when he was at sea.