“For ten years after my retirement, my wife and I lived on in the calm, happy manner that I have described.  We had no griefs—­not even that one which most commonly afflicts parents, the loss of children.  Yet I sometimes think, sir, that it would be far better for some children to die in their youth and innocence, than to grow up and become bad men, and torture and almost kill their parents with ingratitude and unkindness.”  Marcus guessed what was to come.

“We had but one child—­a boy—­born long after I had given up all hopes of having an heir.  I need not tell you, sir, what a joy he was to us in his infancy; for you, too, I presume, are a husband and a father.”

Marcus replied confusedly, and as if it were something to be ashamed of, that he was neither the one nor the other, though he hoped some day (here he was exceedingly awkward) to be both.

The old gentleman was so wrapped up in his own thoughts, that he did not seem to notice the reply.  He again braced himself in the chair, as if he would, by that act, gather strength to proceed.

“Of course, I called the child Myndert.  He was the seventh of that name; and I used to think, even when he was a toddling little baby, what plans of education would be best suited to develop his talents.  I know that a parent’s partiality is a magnifying glass of high power; but, to the best of my belief, he was a most precocious child.  I think so now, as I look back upon the days of his prattling innocence.

“After a great deal of debating, my wife and I concluded to make a lawyer of him.  He was to be the first lawyer in our family annals; and we fondly pictured to ourselves that he would become an eminent judge, or that he would step from the bar into political life, and shed honor upon his country and his family as a statesman.  I know how ridiculous these imaginings must seem to you, and I recall them only to show you how deeply our hearts were wrapped up in that boy.

“When our little Myndert was five years old, my wife died.”  Here the old gentleman clutched the arms of the chair firmly with both hands.  “Our son had been very sick for a week before, and my dear Clara had nearly worn herself out watching over and nursing him.  A severe cold, which she caught while going to the druggist’s in a rain, did the rest.  She died with one arm around me and the other around little Myndert; and her last words were a blessing on the boy, and a request that I would always love him for her sake.”  The old gentleman’s eyes glistened with tears, and his lips twitched convulsively.  Marcus evinced his sympathy in the fittest way, by keeping silence, and fixing his eyes on the floor.

“Well, sir, not to be tedious, I lavished my whole heart upon that child.  His presence seemed to be some consolation for the great loss I had sustained.  His features were so like hers, in all except the eyes, that I seemed to see her through him; and thus, in a peculiar sense, I loved him for her sake, indeed.  He was petted and caressed from his very cradle.  Ah, there was my error; but who can blame a father for over-loving his only son, and that one motherless!