From John’s childhood he had been much of the time away from home, and there had never, partly from that circumstance and partly from the older man’s natural and habitual reserve, been very much intimacy between them.  The father did not give his own confidence, and, while always kind and sympathetic when appealed to, did not ask his son’s; and, loving his father well and loyally, and trusting him implicitly, it did not occur to John to feel that there was anything wanting in the relation.  It was as it had always been.  He was accustomed to accept what his father did or said without question, and, as is very often the case, had always regarded him as an old man.  He had never felt that they could be in the same equation.  In truth, save for their mutual affection, they had little in common; and if, as may have been the case, his father had any cravings for a closer and more intimate relation, he made no sign, acquiescing in his son’s actions as the son did in his, without question or suggestion.  They did not know each other, and such cases are not rare, more is the pity.

But as time went on even John’s unwatchful eye could not fail to notice that all was not well with his father.  Haggard lines were multiplying in the quiet face, and the silence at the dinner table was often unbroken except by John’s unfruitful efforts to keep some sort of a conversation in motion.  More and more frequently it occurred that his father would retire to his own room immediately after dinner was over, and the food on his plate would be almost untouched, while he took more wine than had ever been his habit.  John, retiring late, would often hear him stirring uneasily in his room, and it would be plain in the morning that he had spent a wakeful, if not a sleepless, night.  Once or twice on such a morning John had suggested to his father that he should not go down to the office, and the suggestion had been met with so irritable a negative as to excite his wonder.

* * * * *

It was a day in the latter part of March.  The winter had been unusually severe, and lingered into spring with a heart-sickening tenacity, occasional hints of clemency and promise being followed by recurrences which were as irritating as a personal affront.

John had held to his work in the office, if not with positive enthusiasm, at least with industry, and thought that he had made some progress.  On the day in question the managing clerk commented briefly but favorably on something of his which was satisfactory, and, such experiences being rare, he was conscious of a feeling of mild elation.  He was also cherishing the anticipation of a call at Sixty-ninth Street, where, for reasons unnecessary to recount, he had not been for a week.  At dinner that night his father seemed more inclined than for a long time to keep up a conversation which, though of no special import, was cheerful in comparison with the silence which had grown to be almost the rule, and the two men sat for a while over the coffee and cigars.  Presently, however, the elder rose from the table, saying pleasantly, “I suppose you are going out to-night.”