She rang off again, lest she should be tempted to tell her father more.
Shortly afterwards, when the office staff had gone for the day, a tall, grey-haired, straight-backed gentleman came in, accompanied by a sweet-faced, motherly lady.
Phil stood waiting, with just a little reserve, but there was to be no waiting.
The big, kindly-faced man ran to his boy and hugged him in his arms. He then held him out from him, gazed on his face for a long time, then hugged him again.
“And I almost believed what they told me in the East. Oh, my boy! As if my own boy could be anything but straight, and clean, and honest!”
And there, in the little private room, Phil made his peace with the dear old lady he had wronged so long ago in his boyish idea of chivalry to his own departed mother.
One hour, two hours, three hours passed like so many seconds, as he told them of all his wanderings, his hardships, his disappointments, his ambitions and his ultimate success.
When he told them of how he had suffered five years in prison for Brenchfield because of the kindness Brenchfield’s father and mother had shown in caring for him, in giving him a home and paying for his education––his old father’s anger was almost at white heat.
“Paying, did you say, boy? By the Lord Harry!––not a cent did they ever pay for you. Why, boy!––it was you who kept them,––through me.”