“Now, dad,” she said, in affectionate remonstrance, “you’re excited about politics again, and you know it isn’t good for you.  And besides, they’re not worth it.”

“You’re right, Helen,” he replied.  Under the pressure of her hands he made a strong effort to control himself, and turned to address my mother across the room.

“I’m getting to be a crotchety old man,” he said.  “It’s a good thing I have a daughter to remind me of it.”

“It is a good thing, Robert,” said my mother.

During the rest of our visit he seemed to have recovered something of his former spirits and poise, taking refuge in the past.  They talked of their own youth, of families whose houses had been landmarks on the Second Bank.

“I’m worried about your Cousin Robert, Hugh,” my mother confided to me, when we were at length seated in the train.  “I’ve heard rumours that things are not so well at the store as they might be.”  We looked out at the winter landscape, so different from that one which had thrilled every fibre of my being in the days when the railroad on which we travelled had been a winding narrow gauge.  The orchards—­those that remained—­were bare; stubble pricked the frozen ground where tassels had once waved in the hot, summer wind.  We flew by row after row of ginger-bread, suburban houses built on “villa plots,” and I read in large letters on a hideous sign-board, “Woodbine Park.”

“Hugh, have you ever heard anything against—­Mr. Watling?”

“No, mother,” I said.  “So far as I knew, he is very much looked up to by lawyers and business men.  He is counsel, I believe, for Mr. Blackwood’s street car line on Boyne Street.  And I told you, I believe, that I met him once at Mr. Kyme’s.”

“Poor Robert!” she sighed.  “I suppose business trouble does make one bitter,—­I’ve seen it so often.  But I never imagined that it would overtake Robert, and at his time of life!  It is an old and respected firm, and we have always had a pride in it.” ...

That night, when I was going to bed, it was evident that the subject was still in her mind.  She clung to my hand a moment.

“I, too, am afraid of the new, Hugh,” she said, a little tremulously.  “We all grow so, as age comes on.”

“But you are not old, mother,” I protested.

“I have a feeling, since your father has gone, that I have lived my life, my dear, though I’d like to stay long enough to see you happily married—­to have grandchildren.  I was not young when you were born.”  And she added, after a little while, “I know nothing about business affairs, and now—­now that your father is no longer here, sometimes I’m afraid—­”

“Afraid of what, mother?”

She tried to smile at me through her tears.  We were in the old sitting-room, surrounded by the books.

“I know it’s foolish, and it isn’t that I don’t trust you.  I know that the son of your father couldn’t do anything that was not honourable.  And yet I am afraid of what the world is becoming.  The city is growing so fast, and so many new people are coming in.  Things are not the same.  Robert is right, there.  And I have heard your father say the same thing.  Hugh, promise me that you will try to remember always what he was, and what he would wish you to be!”