I cannot explain why it was, that the unexpected ringing of the bell led to the same thought in the minds of the sick man and his nephew. Sudden fear blanched the face of Lewis; a hopeful look stole over the old man’s face.

“Go, Lewis,” he said. “Perhaps it is Robert.”

“Heaven forbid!” muttered Lewis, as he hastened from the room.

The sound of contending voices struck upon the ear of Lewis Rand, as he hurriedly descended the staircase to the hall. The outer door had been opened, and the servant was endeavoring to impress upon the visitor, in obedience to directions he had received, that there was sickness in the house, and that he could not be admitted.

“Lead me to his chamber,” said Robert Ford, pale with excitement, “I must see him. He is my father.”

The servant looked in his agitated face, and moved aside that he might pass.

Lewis encountered him at the foot of the stairs. They looked at each other—those long-estranged cousins—a moment in silence. Lewis was as pale as death. His lips were compressed and bloodless. The shadow of failure darkened his way. Dismay and anger and strong disappointment struggled with him for the mastery. Robert was calmer. He would not have been human if the sight of his cousin had not awakened within him a feeling of resentment. But this was swallowed up by a feeling yet stronger—the desire to see his father.

“Where is my father, Lewis?” he demanded. “Tell me quickly.”

He was about to pass, when his cousin stepped before him.

“Hold!” he exclaimed, in a quick, hoarse voice. “Would you endanger your father’s life? He is in a most critical condition. The least excitement may kill him.”

Robert hesitated for a moment. After a separation of eighteen years he stood within a few feet of his father, and was forbidden to enter his presence. Nothing short of the urgent reason adduced by Lewis, would have stopped him for a moment.

“Is my father, then, so ill?” he asked, with emotion. “Why, oh why did you not send for me before?”

“Do you think I would not if I had known where to find you?” said Lewis, ignorant how far Robert had been apprised of his machinations.

“I cannot tell,” said Robert, shaking his head. “There was a time, Lewis, when I could not have deemed you capable of it.”

“And why should you now?”

“I cannot tell you at present; but I must see my father.”

“I tell you again,” said Lewis, vehemently, “that if you see him, it will be at the peril of his life. It hangs upon a thread.”

Meanwhile Mr. Rand had listened with feverish anxiety to the voices which he could indistinctly hear. A wild hope had sprung up in his heart. Oh, for the power to rise from his bed and satisfy himself at once. Alas, this could not be! At length, as the speakers raised their voices, he thought he could distinguish the word “father.” His agitation reached a fearful pitch. He raised his voice as high as his feeble strength would permit, and called “Robert!”

That word reached the ears of Robert Ford. Nothing could stop him now. He pushed Lewis aside, scarcely conscious what he did, and a moment after found him kneeling at his father’s bedside.

“Father, forgive me!”

The old man, with an effort, stretched out his thin and wasted hand, and placed it tremulous with weakness upon the head of his kneeling son.

“God, I thank thee,” he uttered, reverently, “for this hour. This my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found. Robert, I have forgiven you long ago. Can you forgive me?”

“Do you then ask my forgiveness, O my father?”

“Yes, Robert. My heart has long since confessed the wrong it did you. Can you forgive me?”

“Freely, freely, my father.”

“Now can I die content,” said Mr. Rand, with a deep sigh of relief. “For many, many years I have waited and looked forward to this hour. I could not believe that God would suffer me to die till I had seen you.”

“Die!” repeated Robert, in a sorrowful tone.

“Yes, Robert, you have come at the eleventh hour.”

“And for months I have lived within two miles of you, and never guessed your nearness.”

“Did you not see my advertisement?”

“Never.”

“How is this?” said Mr. Rand, puzzled. “In what papers was it inserted, Lewis?”

Lewis stood at the door, an apprehensive listener. For obvious reasons he did not choose to obey this call.

“It may be because I seldom look at the papers,” said Robert, not wishing to agitate his father with the intelligence of his cousin’s treachery.

“But others must have seen it,” persisted Mr. Rand. “Why did they not tell you?”

“I passed by a different name,” explained Robert. “None that knew me—and these were but few—could guess my identity with Robert Rand.”

At his father’s request Robert gave a brief account of the eighteen years of separation. He sat with his father’s hand resting in his. As he concluded, a convulsion passed over the old man’s features. He clasped Robert’s hand convulsively. The son leaned forward, hoping to catch the words that seemed struggling for utterance. He could only distinguish “my will—reparation.”

These were the last words that passed the lips of the dying man.

He breathed his life out in the effort, and fell back—dead!

Robert had, indeed, come at the eleventh hour. Yet had he not come too late to make his father’s death-bed happy. A peaceful smile rested upon the worn face. His life had closed happily.

Meanwhile what had become of Lewis?

It was difficult for him at first to collect his thoughts at this most unexpected occurrence.

At first he thought, “All is lost. My hopes are blasted!”

His second thought, when he had recovered from the momentary shock of his cousin’s appearance, was, “It may not be as bad as I fear. The old man cannot live long. This very excitement will probably prove too much for him in his present weak state. During the short time he has to live, it is not probable that anything will happen to disarrange my plans. In the first place, he thinks that his will provides for his son. And so his true will does! But I have taken care that this shall not be brought forward. My uncle and cousin will probably spend the time in sentimentalizing. It will be well for me not to intrude upon this interview, or I may be asked some awkward questions. Lewis Rand, this is the turning-point of your fortunes. Be discreet for a short time, and all may yet be well.”

There was one point that Lewis did not understand. How his cousin could have learned of his father’s presence in the city. He did not suspect Mr. Sharp’s fidelity, but thought it possible that he might, by some blunder, have revealed to Robert that of which he should have been kept ignorant. At all events the lawyer was the only one likely to yield him any satisfaction upon this point. Accordingly, willing to be out of the way for the present, he seized his hat, and hastened to the office of his confidential agent.

Mr. Sharp was, it must be confessed, awaiting with no little anxiety and curiosity, the result of Mr. Ford’s visit, which might so materially effect his own interests.

There was a sharp knock at the door. He rose and opened it.

Lewis entered in great evident perturbation.

“Bless me, what’s the matter?” exclaimed Mr. Sharp, in affected surprise.

“You may well ask me what’s the matter.”

“You don’t mean to say——”

“I do mean to say that all my plans are menaced with defeat.”

“But, how?”

“My cousin Robert is at this moment with his father.”

“Good heavens!” ejaculated the lawyer, in admirably counterfeited consternation. “How did this come about?”

“That is more than I can pretend to say. I came to you for the sake of obtaining information.”

“Which I am wholly unable to afford.”

Lewis threw himself upon a chair.

“To think,” he exclaimed, bitterly, “that this should happen when I am just within reach of success. Twenty-four hours more, and it would probably have been too late!”

“How?”

“I mean that my uncle probably has not twenty-four hours lease of life, unless this meeting revives him. The probability is, that it will have a contrary effect.”

“Do you consider that you have lost all?”

“Fortunately, no. I am in hopes that this interview will, after all, prove of no advantage to my cousin.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Sharp, rubbing his hands with apparent delight, but secret anxiety, beginning for the first time to feel that he would not be recompensed for his treachery.

“Yes. It is not likely that my uncle will be able to make a new will, and the present one I shall be very well contented with.”

“Confusion!” thought the lawyer. “I wish I could only see the old gentleman, and whisper a few words in his ear.”

If Lewis had not been too much absorbed in calculating his own chance, he might have noticed that Mr. Sharp’s wonted affability had deserted him, and that he, too, seemed preoccupied.