Cap and wig had fallen from his head. He was an
old man.
"'Father!' Trove whispered, touching the long white hair. 'O my
father! speak to me. Let me--let me see your face.'
"Slowly--slowly, the old man rose, Trove helping him, and put on
his cap. Then, sir, he took a step back and stood straight as a
king. He waved them away with his hand.
"'Nay, boy, remember,' he whispered. 'Ye were to let him pass.'
And then he started for the door.
"Trove went before him and stood against it.
"'Hear me, boy, 'tis better that ye let him sleep until the trumpet
calls an' ye both stand with all the quick an' the dead.'
"'No, I have waited long, and I love--I love him,' Trove answered.
"Those fair young people knelt beside the old man, clinging to his
hands.
"The good saint was crying.
"'I came not here to bring shame,' said he presently.
"'We honour and with all our souls we love you,' Trove answered.
"'Who shall stand before it?' said the old man. 'Behold--behold
how Love hath raised the dead!' He flung off his cap and beard.
"'If ye will have it so, know ye that I--Roderick Darrel--am thy
father.'"
"Now, sir, you may go. I wish ye merry Christmas!" said that old
man of the hills.
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