"Since then I have been miserable, utterly wretched. I have felt sometimes as if Mirabel, my pretty little bride, came in my dreams to reproach me with the way I had treated her child. So I began to write the statement I have told you of; it is here, Kenneth, in this large envelope under my pillow. Take it, my boy; we will have no tampering with this letter. Keep it under lock and key, and never let it go out of your possession. I wrote it, Kenneth, and then I thought I would leave it with my lawyer, to be opened after my death. Cowardly again, wasn't it? But then this heart attack came on, and, Kenneth, something tells me that the next one will be my last. The doctors seem to be warding off the fatal consequences of this one, but another may seize me at any moment. And then, when I knew that, and began to face death, and thought of standing before my judge, my heart failed me. Of all the sins of my guilty life, I feel that this desertion of my own child has been the worst. And so I sent for you, and you say you forgive me."
"I do, father, indeed I do."
"Thank you, Kenneth; it's more than I deserve. I wish I could know that I had Divine forgiveness too, but I'm afraid that is out of the question now; it is too late for that."
"It is never too late, father; you forget how God longs and yearns to forgive us. He wants to forgive far more than we want to be forgiven. Why, He wants it so much that He sent His own Son to die for us, that He might be able to forgive us. You see He couldn't have forgiven us otherwise, for it wouldn't have been just. He is obliged to punish sin."
"Go on, Kenneth; I know it all in a way, but I want to see it clearly now."
"Well, you see, He let His Son be punished instead of us, so that when we come to Him He might be just, and yet able to forgive us. 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all un-righteousness.'"
It was the same verse which Marjorie had repeated to old Mrs. Hotchkiss, and the simple words, which comforted the heart of the poor ignorant old woman in Daisy Bank who could neither read nor write, now brought peace and a sense of pardon to the highly-cultured and refined nobleman. He grasped Kenneth's hand as he said—
"I will rest on those words, Kenneth, 'faithful and just.' Now I am afraid you must call the nurses. Get some dinner, and rest, and come to me again in the morning."
He grasped his hand warmly as he said goodnight, and Kenneth opened the door and admitted the doctor. He was leaving the room when his father called him back.
"Sir Lawrence Taylor, may I introduce my son to you—the future Earl?"