s chair and grasped both the hands of the traveler
and shook them heartily--"Victor Hartman! My dear friend, I am so
delighted--and so surprised--to see you! Sit down--sit down!" he
continued, dragging forward a chair and forcing his visitor into it.
"But I never should have known you again," he concluded, gazing intently
upon the bronzed, gray, tall, broad-shouldered man before him.

"I am much changed," answered the stranger, in a deep, mellifluous
voice, that reminded the hearer of sweet, solemn church music.

"Changed! Why, you left us a mere stripling! You return to us a mature
man. To all appearance, you might be the father of the boy who went
away," said the minister, still gazing upon the stranger.

"And yet the time has not been long; though indeed I have lived much in
that period," said the traveler, in the same rich, deep tone, and with
a smile that rendered his worn face bright and handsome for the moment.

"Well, I am delighted to see you. But how is it that I have this joyful
surprise?" inquired the minister.

"What brings me here, you would ask; and why did I not write and tell
you that I was coming?" said Hartman, with an odd smile. "Well, I will
explain. When I got your letter acknowledging the receipt of the last
remittance I sent to you for my children, I learned for the first time
by that same letter that my boy would graduate at this Commencement, and
hoped to take the highest honors of his college. Well, a steamer was to
sail at noon that very day. I thought I would like to be present at the
Commencement and see my boy take his degree. I packed my trunk in an
hour, embarked in the 'Porte d'Or' in another hour, and here I am."

"That was prompt. When did you arrive?"

"Our steamer reached New York on Thursday noon. I took the night train
for Washington, where I arrived at five on Friday morning. I took the
morning boat for Aquia Creek, and the train for Richmond and
Charlottesville. I got here about noon."

"And you have not seen your _proteges_?"

"Yes, I have seen my boy pass the hotel twice to-day. I knew him by his
likeness to his unfortunate father. But I did not make myself known to
him. I do not intend to do so--at least not at present."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" echoed Hartman, sorrowfully. "Ah, would he not shrink from me
in disgust and abhorrence?"

"No; not if he were told the awful injustice that has been done you."

"But if he were told, would he believe it? We have no proof