"My dear lad," was all Mr. Holworth could say, as he took the thin,
blanched hand, put his arm round the shoulders, and reseated Stead,
still speechless with joy. Patience, curtseying low, came up
anxiously, showing the same honest face as of old, though work and
anxiety had traced their lines on the sun-burnt complexion, and Ben
stood blushing, and showing his keener, more cultivated face, as the
stranger turned to greet them so as to give Steadfast time to recover
himself.
"Oh! sir, but we are glad to see your reverence," cried Patience.
"Will you go in, or sit by Stead? Ben, fetch a chair."
"And is this fine strapping fellow, the sickly babe that you were
never to rear, Patience?"
"God has been very good to us, sir," said Patience.
"And this is best of all," said Stead, recovering breath and speech.
"I thank Him that I have lived to see this day! It is all safe,
sir."
"And you, you faithful guardian, you have suffered for it."
If it had not been for Blane's partial revelations, Mr. Holworth
never would have extracted the full story of how for that sacred
trust, Steadfast Kenton had endured threats and pain, and had
foregone ease, prosperity, latterly happiness, and how finally it had
cost him health, nay life itself, for he was as surely dying of the
buccaneer's pistol shot, as though he had been slain on the spot.
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