He bent over his father and called him.
"Robert Anderson!" A sudden shock passed through the sleeper.

He started up, and Anderson saw his hand dart for something lying beside him, no doubt a revolver.
But Anderson grasped the arm.
"Don't be afraid; you're quite safe." McEwen, still bewildered by sleep and drink, tried to shake off the grasp, to see who it was standing over him.

Anderson released him, and moved so that the lamplight fell upon himself.
Slowly McEwen's faculties came together, began to work.

The lamplight showed him his son George--the fair-haired, broad-shouldered fellow he had been tracking all these days--and he understood.
He straightened himself, with an attempt at dignity.
"So it's you, George?
You might have given me notice." "Where have you been all these years ?" said Anderson, indistinctly.

"And why did you let me believe you dead ?" "Well, I had my reasons, George.