It was not until he and his mother were alone together that Derrick

delivered his father's message; and he did so gently, tenderly, with his

hand laid in hers. Donna Elvira was silent for a long time; then she

said, in a low voice, "We will leave it to time, Derrick. You say, in your language, that Time

heals all things. And the wound is now almost healed. We will

wait----Yes, we will leave it to time."

And with that Derrick had to be satisfied.

It was towards the close of their stay at the ranch that Derrick

received a letter from his father containing the news of the death of

him who had been known so long to the world as the Marquess of Sutcombe.

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The last days of the stricken man had passed in peacefulness and

forgetfulness. He had never spoken of his son, had seemed to remember

nothing of the terrible tragedy which had cast its shadow over all their

lives; all his conscious thought had been of the brother whose place he

had usurped, at first innocently, but whom now he had restored to his

own. The letter closed with a hint that Derrick's father found the

responsibility of his titles and honours somewhat hard to bear; and

Derrick knew that the old man needed him.

This letter brought their visit--already a long one--to an end, and

Derrick and Celia started for home. Nothing shall be said of their

reception; indeed, the most eloquent pen could not attempt to vie with

the glowing periods in which the great event was enshrined in the

columns of the local paper; suffice it that, after a progress through

many triumphal arches, much cheering; some speechifying on the part of

Derrick--which was by no means particularly happy but was received with

delirious enthusiasm--the carriage conveyed them to the Hall, where

Derrick's father and Celia's old friend stood, leaning on his stick, and

awaited them.

"Thank God you've come back, Derrick!" said his father, fervently. "You

and Celia are wanted here, very badly. You see," he added, with a touch

of pathos, "I have been away from all this so long, I am so unused to

everything----My dear, will you believe me"--he turned to Celia with a

smile that had not a little pathos in it--"I sometimes long for the

quietude, the--the bareness of 'The Jail'!"

"I know," said Celia in a low voice, and with a glance at Derrick beside

her.

For she and Derrick, on their way home, had stopped for a night in

London and had gone back to "The Jail." They had slept in her old room,

and they had stood, hand in hand, in his, where first they had met,

where she had come to him, an angel of rescue.




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