As General Hampden stood and waited in the dusk, he felt that his whole life and future depended on the issue of the next few moments. He determined to take matters in his own hand. Every moment might tell against him and might decide his fate. So, without waiting longer, he rang the bell. A minute later he heard steps within, and the door was opened by one who he knew must be Colonel Drayton, though had he met him elsewhere he should not have recognized the white hair and the thin, bent form as that of his old friend and enemy. Colonel Drayton had evidently not seen his grandson yet, for he spoke as to a stranger.

“Will you not walk in, sir!” he said cordially. “I was expecting my little grandson who went out a short while ago.” He peered up the street. “Did you wish to see my daughter? You will find us in a little confusion—Christinas time is always a busy season with us on account of our young man: my grandson.” He lingered with pride over the words.

The General stepped into the light.

“Wilmer Drayton! Don't you know me? I am Oliver Hampden, and I have come to apologize to you for all I have done which has offended you, and to ask you to be friends with me.” He held out his hand.

The old Colonel stepped back, and under the shock of surprise paused for a moment.

“Oliver Hampden!” The next moment he stepped forward and took his hand.

“Come in, Oliver,” he said, gently, and putting his other arm around the General's shoulder, he handed him into the little cosey, fire-lighted room as though nothing had happened since he had done the same the last time fifty years before.

At this moment the door opened and the little boy entered with mingled mysteriousness and importance. Seeing the two gentlemen standing together, he paused with a mystified look in his wide-open eyes, trying to comprehend the situation.

“Oliver, come here,” said the Colonel, quietly. “This is your other grandfather.”

The boy came forward, and, wheeling, stood close beside the Colonel, facing General Hampden, like a soldier dressing by his file-closer.

“You are my grandfather,” he said, glancing up at the Colonel.

The Colonel's eyes glowed with a soft light.

“Yes, my boy; and so is he. We are friends again, and you must love him—just as you do me.”

“I will not love him as much,” was the sturdy answer.

It was the General who spoke next.

“That is right, my boy. All I ask is that you will love me some.” He was pleading with this young commissioner.

“I will, if you are good to my mother.” His eyes were fastened on him without a tremor, and the General's deep-set eyes began to glow with hope.

“That 's a bargain,” he said holding out his hand. The boy took it gravely.

Just then the door opened and Lucy Hampden entered. Her face was calm and her form was straight. Her eyes, deep and burning, showed that she was prepared either for peace or war. It was well for the General that he had chosen peace. Better otherwise had he charged once more the deadliest battle line he had ever faced. For a moment the General saw only Lucy Fielding.

With a woman's instinct the young widow comprehended at the first glance what had taken place, and although her face was white, her eyes softened as she advanced. The General had turned and faced her. He could not utter a word, but the boy sprang towards her and, wheeling, stood by her side.

Taking his hand, she led him forward.

“Oliver,” she said, gently, “this is your father's father.” Then to the General, in a dead silence—“Father, this is your son's son.”

The General clasped them both in his arms.

“Forgive me. Forgive me. I have prayed for his forgiveness, for I can never forgive myself.”

“He forgave you,” said the widow, simply.