“Come with me,” he commanded, placing his hand on the shoulder of the child, who unresistingly suffered himself to be pushed along toward his foster-father’s room.  Frances Allan broke into wild sobbing and placed her fingers against her ears that she might not hear the screams of her pet.  But there were no screams.  Silently, and with an air of dignity it was marvellous so small a figure could command, the beautiful boy received the blows.  When one’s soul has been hurt, what matters mere physical pain?  When both the strength and the passion of Mr. Allan had been somewhat spent, he ceased laying on blows and asked in a calmed voice,

“Are you ready to tell me the truth now?”

In one moment of time the child lived over again the beautiful hour at his mother’s grave.  He saw again the silver spire and the silver half-moon and the silver star—­smelled the blended odors of honeysuckle and rose, made sweeter, by the gathering dews, and felt the coolness and freshness of the long green grass that covered the grave.  Who knew but that deep down under the sweet grass she had been conscious he was there—­had felt his heart beat and heard his loving whispers as of old, and loved him still, and understood, though she would see him nevermore?  Share the secret of that holy hour with anyone—­of all people, with this wrathful, blind, unsympathizing man who had just confessed himself a stranger to him?  Never!

A faint smile, full of peace, settled upon his poet’s face, but he answered never a word.

There was a stir at the door.  John Allan looked toward it.  His wife stood there drying her eyes.  He turned to the boy again.

“Go with your mother and get your supper,” he commanded.

“I don’t want it,” was the reply.

“Well, go to bed then, and tomorrow afternoon you are to spend in your own room, where I hope meditation upon your idle ways may bring you to something like repentance.”

The boy paused half-way to the door.  “Tomorrow is the day I’m going swimming with the boys.  You promised that I might go.”

“Well, I take back the promise, that’s all.”

“Don’t you think you’ve punished him enough for this time, John?” timidly asked his wife.

“No boy is ever punished enough until he is conquered,” was the reply.  “And Edgar is far from that!”

Mrs. Allan, with her arm about the little culprit’s shoulder went with him to his room.  How she wished that he would let her cuddle him in her lap and sing to him and tell him stories and then hear him his prayers at her knee and tuck him in bed as in the old days before he went to boarding-school!  Her heart ached for him, though she had no notion of the bitterness, the rebellion, that were rankling in his.  As she kissed him goodnight she whispered,

“You shall have your swim, in the river, tomorrow, Eddie darling; I’ll see that you do.”

“Don’t you ask him to let me do anything,” he protested, passionately.  “I’m going without asking him.  He disowned me for a son, I’ll disown him for a father!”