“I must. I have erred bitterly. I was blind to the truth. Will you forgive me?”
“Mr Raydon!” I cried.
“My dear boy,” he said, as he grasped my hands; and, to my astonishment, I saw the tears standing in his eyes, while I could not help thinking as he stood there softened towards me, how like he seemed to his sister; “you do not know how I have suffered, hard, cold man as I have grown in my long residence in these wilds.”
“But it’s all past now, sir,” I said; “and you know the truth.”
“Yes; all past,” said Gunson, warmly.
“Past; but I shall never forget it, Mayne. My dear sister’s letter interested me deeply in you, and when you came I felt that she had not exaggerated, and you at once made your way with me. Then came this wretched misunderstanding, blinding me to everything but the fact that I had received a wound, one which irritated me more than I can say.”
“Pray, pray say no more, sir,” I cried, excitedly.
“I must, Mayne. I ought to have known better.”
“I am glad, Dan,” cried Mr John, exultingly. “I have always been such a weak, easily-led-away man, that my life has been a series of mistakes; and it is a delightful triumph to me to find that my hard-headed, stern brother-in-law can blunder too.”
“Yes; it will take some of the conceit out of me,” said Mr Raydon, smiling. “There; shake hands, my lad. I read your forgiveness in your eyes.”