“Papa, he will come home. He is sure to come. We must always hope. And when he comes, he must not know that you ever thought of putting—another in his place. It must not be me. Even if I could give it all back to him, it would not be the same. He could never believe you had forgiven him if you were to do as you said. And, oh! Auntie Jean, he is sure to come home. We can only wait and hope?”
“Only wait and hope and pray. He will come if it is God’s will. And if he shouldna, God’s will is best.”
There was nothing more to be said. But did the old man sitting there with his face hidden in his hands assent to his sister’s words? Had God’s will been best? If he could have had his will, all should have been very differently ordered, as far as the past of his son was concerned. As for the future—did he wish for his return? Could the misery of their long estrangement ever be forgotten or outlived?
The bright-faced, happy, loving lad never could return—never. What was his son like now? What could he hope from him, or for him, after what he knew of him?
Oh, yes! he loved him, pitied him, longed for him; but if it were God’s will that he should come home again, would God’s will be best? God Himself could not blot out the past, and make them to each other all that they had been before this trouble came between them. He groaned aloud in his misery, and then he remembered that he was not alone. He rose up as if to go, but sat down again, putting great constraint upon himself.
“We’ll say nae mair about it now, lassie,” said he hoarsely.
“No, papa, only this, Wait a little while. George will surely come home—or—we shall hear that he is dead. I think he will come home—soon.”
“Will our Geordie, our frank, true-hearted, noble lad ever come home to us again, think you? Could God Himself give him back to us as he was?”
“Whisht! George, man,” said his sister gravely. “Think what ye’re saying! All things are possible with God.”
“Ay! to him that believes, but that is beyond belief—to me,” said the old man with a sob.