into the dimness of the background of a picture when one saw the man who was the master.  Among a thousand picked men, his face and figure would have been distinguished.  People did not call him old, for the alertness and force of youth radiated from him, and his gray eyes were clear and his color fresh, yet the face was lined heavily, and the thick thatch of hair shone in the firelight silvery white.  Face and figure were full of character and breeding, of life lived to its utmost, of will, responsibility, success.  Yet to-night the spring of the mechanism seemed broken, and the noble head lay back against the brown leather of his deep chair as listlessly as a tired girl’s.  He watched the dry wood of the fire as it blazed and fell apart and blazed up brightly again, yet his eyes did not seem to see it—­their absorbed gaze was inward.

The distant door of the room swung open, but the man did not hear, and, his head and face clear cut like a cameo against the dark leather, hands stretched nervelessly along the arms of the chair, eyes gazing gloomily into the heart of the flame, he was still.  A young man, brilliant with strength, yet with a worn air about him, and deep circles under his eyes, stood inside the room and looked at him a long minute—­those two in the silence.  The fire crackled cheerfully and the old man sighed.

“Father!” said the young man by the door.

In a second the whole pose changed, and he sat intense, staring, while the son came toward him and stood across the rug, against the dark wood of the Florentine fireplace, a picture of young manhood which any father would he proud to own.

“Of course, I don’t know if you want me, father,” he said, “but I’ve come to tell you that I’ll be a good boy, if you do.”

The gentle, half-joking manner was very winning, and the play of his words was trembling with earnest.  The older man’s face shone as if lamps were lighted behind his eyes.

“If I want you, Ted!” he said, and held out his hand.

With a quick step forward the lad caught it, and then, with quick impulsiveness, as if his childhood came back to him on the flood of feeling unashamed, bent down and kissed him.  As he stood erect again he laughed a little, but the muscles of his face were working, and there were tears in his eyes.  With a swift movement he had drawn a chair, and the two sat quiet a moment, looking at each other in deep and silent content to be there so, together.

“Yesterday I thought I’d never see you again this way,” said the boy; and his father only smiled at him, satisfied as yet without words.  The son went on, his eager, stirred feelings crowding to his lips.  “There isn’t any question great enough, there isn’t any quarrel big enough, to keep us apart, I think, father.  I found that out this afternoon.  When a chap has a father like you, who has given him a childhood and a youth like mine—­” The young voice stopped, trembling.  In a moment he had mastered himself.