As he watched him out of the room, a kinder, softer, expression came on his face.

His father was the only being he cared for in the world.
He slept a heavy and dreamless sleep that night, and when he woke for the first time, the bright winter's sun was shining into his room, and morning was far advanced.
He arose, strengthened and refreshed by his sleep, with a light heart.
He began whistling as he dressed himself, but suddenly stopped, as the recollection of the night before came upon him.

Was it a reality, or only a dream?
No; it was true enough.

He has no need to whistle this morning.

He is entangled in a web of crime and guilt from which there is no escape.
He dressed himself, and went forth into the fresh morning air for a turn, walking up and down on the broad gravel walk before the dark old porch.
A glorious winter's morning.