Then suddenly his arm dropped as if broken, and the old man was hurled across the room as a ball is thrown, to fall with a crash against the opposite wall.

It was as if a hurricane had burst upon him.  A sense of horror came upon him; he felt himself deposed, like a lord of the manor declared bankrupt before his underlings.  He had no power over the boy now—­either as a father or as the stronger man.  And there by the door stood the lad, with the lithe strength of youth in his body and a fire of defiance in his eyes.

The clock on the wall beat through the silence, as if questioning earnestly what this might mean.  But no one answered.

“So—­that’s it, is it?” gasped the father at last.  “Ay!” answered the son, his voice trembling with emotion, but threatening still.

The old man flung his stick in a corner, stepped back, and sat down heavily in his place.

“If you’ve a drop of my blood in your veins,” he said at last, “you’ll need no telling what must be the end of this.”

“I know it,” was the answer.  “I’m going, never fear.”

The mother pressed her clasped hands tighter, took a step forward and opened her lips as if to speak, but the look on the two men’s faces silenced her, and she fell back in the voiceless blank of unaccomplished purpose.

Again the clock was heard.

“I’d thought to make something of you,” said the old man in icy tones.  “But you’d no fancy for book-learning and gentlefolks’ ways, though you’d a good head enough.  Rather stick to the land, you would, and flung away the books after a year of them.  But a man that looks to work his land as it should be—­he’s books of his own, or what’s the same—­and that you must fling away now the same gait, it seems—­to waste yourself in a common strumpet’s bed!”

The young man drew himself up, and his eyes flashed fire.

“Leave it unsaid!” cried his father. “’Tis best so.”  Then rising from his seat, he stood a moment as if in thought, and passed through the open door to the next room, opened a cupboard there and took something out.

“No son of mine goes out from this house a beggar,” said he proudly, and held out his hand.

“You can put the money back,” said the boy, with no less pride.

“’Tis but poor provision for a journey, anyway, if a man can’t manage for himself,” he added, turning away.

His father stood still, looking at him earnestly, as if trying to read something.

“’Tis no harm to a man to manage for himself if he can,” said he slowly.  He spoke in no angry tone, but with a stern approval.

The boy stood thinking for a moment.

“Good-bye, father.”

His father did not answer, but stared fixedly before him, and his eyes hardened.

His mother had seated herself on a bench beside the window, her face turned away, looking out—­and warm drops fell on the sill.