We both thought of that day: I knew not if my father did also.
He entered, leaning heavily on John.

He sat down in the very seat, in the very room, where he had so harshly judged us--judged him.
Something, perhaps, of that bitterness rankled in the young man's spirit now, for he stopped on the threshold.
"Come in," said my father, looking up.
"If I am welcome; not otherwise." "Thee art welcome." He came in--I drew him in--and sat down with us.

But his manner was irresolute, his fingers closed and unclosed nervously.

My father, too, sat leaning his head on his two hands, not unmoved.

I stole up to him, and thanked him softly for the welcome he had given.
"There is nothing to thank me for," said he, with something of his old hardness.