“I want to tell you the rest.  I came back from my tramp by the river drive, and suddenly I saw Griswold on his horse trotting up the bridle-path toward me.  I drew the line at seeing any more men, and Griswold is the worst of the lot for wanting to do things, so I turned into a side-street and ran.  I had an idea he had seen me, so when I came to a little church with the doors open, in the first half-block, I shot in.  Being Lent, you know, there was service going on, and I dropped quietly into a seat at the back, and it came to me in a minute, that I was in fit shape to say my prayers, so—­I said ’em.  It quieted me a bit, the old words of the service.  They’re fine English, of course, and I think words get a hold on you when they’re associated with every turn of your life.  So I felt a little less like a wild beast, by the time the clergyman began his sermon.  He was a pathetic old fellow, thin and ascetic and sad, with a narrow forehead and a little white hair, and an underfed look about him.  The whole place seemed poor and badly kept.  As he walked across the chancel, he stumbled on a hole in the carpet.  I stared at him, and suddenly it struck me that he must be about your age, and it was like a knife in me, father, to see him trip.  No two men were ever more of a contrast, but through that very fact he seemed to be standing there as a living message from you.  So when he opened his mouth to give out his text I fell back as if he had struck me, for the words he said were, ‘I will arise and go to my father.’”

The boy’s tones, in the press and rush of his little story, were dramatic, swift, and when he brought out its climax, the older man, though his tense muscles were still, drew a sudden breath, as if he, too, had felt a blow.  But he said nothing, and the eager young voice went on.

“The skies might have opened and the Lord’s finger pointed at me, and I couldn’t have felt more shocked.  The sermon was mostly tommy-rot, you know—­platitudes.  You could see that the man wasn’t clever—­had no grasp—­old-fashioned ideas—­didn’t seem to have read at all.  There was really nothing in it, and after a few sentences I didn’t listen particularly.  But there were two things about it I shall never forget, never, if I live to a hundred.  First, all through, at every tone of his voice, there was the thought that the brokenhearted look in the eyes of this man, such a contrast to you in every way possible, might be the very look in your eyes after a while, if I left you.  I think I’m not vain to know I make a lot of difference to you, father—­considering we two are all alone.”  There was a questioning inflection, but he smiled, as if he knew.

“You make all the difference.  You are the foundation of my life.  All the rest counts for nothing beside you.”  The father’s voice was slow and very quiet.