At last they were there, and the child led him in,—up the long hotel stairs, across hall and corridor,—until, at length, she opened a door and said cheerily,—
"Mamma, here's grandpapa."
His head swam. He was fain to sit down, and there were his own Amy's arms about his neck. Why had he never known what he lost, in losing the sweetness of her love, through all these vanished years? He held her fast now, and he heard her voice close to his ear:—
"Father, are we reconciled at last?"
"I don't know, daughter, until you've told me whether you've forgiven me."
"There need be no talk about forgiveness," she said. "You went according to your own light. It is enough that God has brought us together again in peace. I thought that no one could resist my little Amy, least of all her grandpapa."
He looked up, and the child stood by, silently; the firelight glittering in her golden hair, her face shining strangely sweet. He put out his arms and drew her into them, close—where no child, not even his own, had ever nestled before. Oh, how much he had missed in life! he thought. He felt her clinging hold round his neck,—her kisses dropped upon his face like the pitying dew from heaven, and he—was it himself, or another soul in his place?
"Here, father," Amy's voice had a cheerful ring to it, and her happy married life had made of her a fine, contented, matronly-appearing woman, "here are Harry and the boys waiting to speak to you."
He shook his son-in-law's hand heartily. Old feuds, old things, were over now, and all was become new. Then he looked at the boys,—six-years-old Hal, three-years-old Geordie,—brave, merry little fellows, of whom he should be proud some day; only they could never be to him quite like this girl in his arms,—his first-found grandchild.