Poor boy! Wayward and reckless from his childhood up he had plunged headlong into all the vices that lure passionate youth from virtue’s path, and yet—had he sinned more than he had been sinned against? If he had erred, if he had gone wrong, surely he had paid the forfeit. It was a heavy price, that of his young life, and it ill becomes us to sit in judgment upon him. Lawrence and Alice had insisted that he remain an inmate of their home, and a bright sunny room had been placed at his disposal, where he remained until the end.
In the meantime much of interest had transpired, ere the dawn of that sad spring morning. On that memorable night that had brought so much of joy, and also so much of pain—the finding of the long lost brother—our friends had separated as they had at first intended doing, with the difference that those departing had remained a few hours longer at the Westcots than they had expected. With the feeling of uncertainty as to the fate of the frozen man none experienced a desire to leave until the news came that he would recover temporarily at least; and when the suspicions of the sisters had proved to be correct—that the unfortunate stranger was indeed their brother, so long dead to them—then, as the hour was very late, whispering words of hope the good nights were at last spoken. The Wallace sisters with Osmond and Norman as escorts were rapidly driven to their home; Edith’s hand had been held just a little longer and closer by the young physician than would seem to have been necessary, and Mrs. Leland had held her boy very close as though the separation about to take place was for an unknown period of time, instead of only one short night,—but finally they were whirled away over the freezing snow, and in due time deposited each at their respective doors.
Mr. Wallace did not often inquire into the doings of his daughters. Long since he gave over the attempt to control their actions, feeling that they could well be trusted. On this occasion, however, the hour had been so unusually late when they had come home that he could not refrain from asking where they had spent the evening, or rather night, as was in the “wee sma’ hours” that they had sought their room. A moment Edith hesitated, then,
“At the Westcot’s—they are entertaining visitors from Chicago, the belated trains causing us also to be late.”
Edith again hesitated before answering. Should she tell the truth? It was extremely distasteful to this pure-minded girl to speak a falsehood. She felt she could not possibly keep the fact a secret that her brother was in the city. The sisters exchanged a quick apprehensive glance, then endeavoring to appear calm as possible Edith said:
“The interest might possibly be greater than you think, and you will perhaps agree with me when I tell you that one of them bears the name of Wilbur Wallace.”
Mr. Wallace, who was just partaking of his morning meal, arrested midway the cup which he was about placing to his lips and stared at his daughter as if he had not heard aright.
“Who? What is that you say?”
“Wilbur Wallace,” repeated Edith with slightly trembling voice. Slowly the cup that was poised in mid air was again replaced upon the table.
“Do you mean to say that it is your brother to whom you refer?”