He had never spoken of his son, had seemed to remember nothing of the terrible tragedy which had cast its shadow over all their lives; all his conscious thought had been of the brother whose place he had usurped, at first innocently, but whom now he had restored to his own.

The letter closed with a hint that Derrick's father found the responsibility of his titles and honours somewhat hard to bear; and Derrick knew that the old man needed him.
This letter brought their visit--already a long one--to an end, and Derrick and Celia started for home.

Nothing shall be said of their reception; indeed, the most eloquent pen could not attempt to vie with the glowing periods in which the great event was enshrined in the columns of the local paper; suffice it that, after a progress through many triumphal arches, much cheering; some speechifying on the part of Derrick--which was by no means particularly happy but was received with delirious enthusiasm--the carriage conveyed them to the Hall, where Derrick's father and Celia's old friend stood, leaning on his stick, and awaited them.
"Thank God you've come back, Derrick!" said his father, fervently.

"You and Celia are wanted here, very badly.

You see," he added, with a touch of pathos, "I have been away from all this so long, I am so unused to everything----My dear, will you believe me"-- he turned to Celia with a smile that had not a little pathos in it--"I sometimes long for the quietude, the--the bareness of 'The Jail'!" "I know," said Celia in a low voice, and with a glance at Derrick beside her.
For she and Derrick, on their way home, had stopped for a night in London and had gone back to "The Jail." They had slept in her old room, and they had stood, hand in hand, in his, where first they had met, where she had come to him, an angel of rescue.
There were festivities enough now and to spare.