“When did you allow to put the boy to work, father?” she finally said, and her tone unintentionally made Hiram feel more than ever as if he had sentenced “the boy” to hard labor in the degradation and disgrace of a chain gang.

As he waited some time for self-control before answering, she thought her inquiry had deepened his resentment.  “Not that I don’t think you’re right, maybe,” she hastened to add, “though”—­this wistfully, in a feminine and maternal subtlety of laying the first lines for sapping and mining his position—­“I often think about our life, all work and no play, and wonder if we oughtn’t to give the children the chance we never had.”

“No good never came of idleness,” said Hiram, uncompromisingly, “and to be busy about foolishness is still worse.  Work or rot—­that’s life.”

“That’s so; that’s so,” she conceded.  And she was sincere; for that was her real belief, and what she had hinted was a mere unthinking repetition of the shallow, comfortable philosophy of most people—­those “go easys” and “do nothings” and “get nowheres” wherewith Saint X and the surrounding country were burdened.  “Still,” she went on, aloud, “Arthur hasn’t got any bad habits, like most of the young men round here with more money than’s good for them.”

“Drink ain’t the only bad habit,” replied Hiram.  “It ain’t the worst, though it looks the worst.  The boy’s got brains.  It ain’t right to allow him to choke ’em up with nonsense.”

Ellen’s expression was assent.

“Tell him to come down to the mill next Monday,” said Hiram, after another silence, “and tell him to get some clothes that won’t look ridiculous.”  He paused, then added; “A man that ain’t ready to do anything, no matter what so long as it’s useful and honest, is good for nothing.”

The night had bred in Arthur brave and bold resolves.  He would not tamely submit; he would cast his father off, would go forth and speedily carve a brilliant career.  He would show his father that, even if the training of a gentleman develops tastes above the coarseness of commerce, it also develops the mental superiority that makes fleeing chaff of the obstacles to fame and wealth.  He did not go far into details; but, as his essays at Harvard had been praised, he thought of giving literature’s road to distinction the preference over the several others that must be smooth before him.  Daylight put these imaginings into silly countenance, and he felt silly for having lingered in their company, even in the dark.  As he dressed he had much less than his wonted content with himself.  He did not take the same satisfaction in his clothes, as evidence of his good taste, or in his admired variations of the fashion of wearing the hair and tying the scarf.  Midway in the process of arranging his hair he put down his military brushes; leaning against the dressing table, he fixed his mind upon the first serious thoughts he had ever had in his whole irresponsible, sheltered life.  “Well,” he said, half-aloud, “there is something wrong!  If there isn’t, why do I feel as if my spine had collapsed?” After a long pause, he added:  “And it has!  All that held it steady was father’s hand.”