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those old aches, which awaken again indeed upon occasion, but

which we can always vanquish by an effort of the will; and to



have the long lost resuscitated in a fresh disgrace was

doubly bitter.



'Macewen,' said the old man, 'this must be hushed up, if

possible. If I give you a cheek for this sum, about which



they are certain, could you take it on yourself to let the

matter rest?'



'I will,' said Macewen. 'I will take the risk of it.'

'You understand,' resumed Mr. Nicholson, speaking precisely,



but with ashen lips, 'I do this for my family, not for that

unhappy young man. If it should turn out that these



suspicions are correct, and he has embezzled large sums, he

must lie on his bed as he has made it.' And then looking up



at Macewen with a nod, and one of his strange smiles: 'Good-

bye,' said he, and Macewen, perceiving the case to be too



grave for consolation, took himself off, and blessed God on

his way home that he was childless.



CHAPTER V - THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN

BY a little after noon on the eve of Christmas, John had left



his portmanteau in the cloak-room, and stepped forth into

Princes Street with a wonderful expansion of the soul, such



as men enjoy on the completion of long-nourished schemes. He

was at home again, incognito and rich; presently he could



enter his father's house by means of the pass-key, which he

had piously preserved through all his wanderings; he would



throw down the borrowed money; there would be a

reconciliation, the details of which he frequently arranged;



and he saw himself, during the next month, made welcome in

many stately houses at many frigid dinner-parties, taking his



share in the conversation with the freedom of the man and the

traveller, and laying down the law upon finance with the



authority of the successful investor. But this programme was

not to be begun before evening - not till just before dinner,



indeed, at which meal the reassembled family were to sit

roseate, and the best wine, the modern fatted calf, should



flow for the prodigal's return.

Meanwhile he walked familiar streets, merry reminiscences



crowding round him, sad ones also, both with the same

surprising pathos. The keen frosty air; the low, rosy,



wintry sun; the castle, hailing him like an old acquaintance;

the names of friends on door-plates; the sight of friends



whom he seemed to recognise, and whom he eagerly avoided, in

the streets; the pleasant chant of the north-country accent;



the dome of St. George's reminding him of his last

penitential moments in the lane, and of that King of Glory



whose name had echoed ever since in the saddest corner of his

memory; and the gutters where he had learned to slide, and



the shop where he had bought his skates, and the stones on

which he had trod, and the railings in which he had rattled



his clachan as he went to school; and all those thousand and

one nameless particulars, which the eye sees without noting,



which the memory keeps indeed yet without knowing, and which,

taken one with another, build up for us the aspect of the



place that we call home: all these besieged him, as he went,

with both delight and sadness.



His first visit was for Houston, who had a house on Regent

Terrace, kept for him in old days by an aunt. The door was



opened (to his surprise) upon the chain, and a voice asked

him from within what he wanted.



'I want Mr. Houston - Mr. Alan Houston,' said he.

'And who are ye?' said the voice.



'This is most extraordinary,' thought John; and then aloud he

told his name.



'No' young Mr. John?' cried the voice, with a sudden increase

of Scotch accent, testifying to a friendlier feeling.



'The very same,' said John.

And the old butler removed his defences, remarking only 'I



thocht ye were that man.' But his master was not there; he




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