Nell threw herself into her father's arms, and clung to him. He held her close, inexpressibly comforted by this contact with his own flesh and blood.
"As if any one could doubt that you did right!" she exclaimed, scornfully.
"I've heard the story," Jack interrupted. His voice was quivering with sympathetic anger. "Shooting was too good a death for this Dan McGrew."
"And you?" Jim spoke more softly now, with his eyes fixed on the woman, who had not risen. His voice was very wistful. His eyes were even more wistful, as they searched that dear face, which, though weary and worn, was still so beautiful.
The great, dark eyes, brilliant as a girl's in this hour of excitement, met his in frank adoration.
"Jim," she said, and the music of her voice seemed sweeter than he had ever heard it before, "you were right to kill him, of course. But whatever you do, always, will be right to me—just because you do it. I doubted you once, Jim. Never again!" She rose now, and came to him. And, at her coming, a feminine instinct caused Nell to slip from her father's embrace. Her mother stepped close, and raised her lips.
"Kiss me, Jim." Her voice was no more than a whisper, but it went echoing through all the chambers of the man's heart. He folded his arms about her with a reverent gentleness, yet strongly, as if he would never let her go. Then, he bent his head, and kissed her on the lips.... It was the sacrament of a new life in the old love.
Thereafter, the four talked of many things. Nell was compelled to tell again the story of her escape from the river. The mother was deeply stirred by gratitude to the kindly pair who had rescued and ministered unto her daughter through so many years. She turned to Jim, all eagerness, her eyes aglow, her lips curving in the gracious smile he knew so well.
"Oh, can't we go to visit them, and thank them? We must!"
Jim nodded.