A sharp sense of pain filled his heart--keen regret, bitter
remorse, a longing for power to undo all that was done, to recall
the lost miserable years--the best of his life. He might
return; he might do his best to atone for his error; but neither
repentance nor atonement would give him back the father whose
pride he had humbled in the dust.
As the carriage rolled up the broad drive, a hundred instances of
his father's love and indulgence flashed across him--he had
never refused any request save one. He wisely and tenderly tried
to dissuade him from the false step that could never be retraced
but all in vain.
He remembered his father's face on that morning when, with
outstretched hands, he bade him leave his presence and never seek
it more--when he told him that whenever he looked upon his dead
face he was to remember that death itself was less bitter than
the hour in which he had been deceived.
Sad, bitter memories filled his heart when the carriage stopped
at the door and Ronald caught sight of the old familiar faces,
some in smiles, some in tears.
The library door was thrown open.
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