stood at my side with one hand on my shoulder, almost pushing
me forward, but I did not move. I can well remember the look of
disappointment, even pain, on her face; and I can now understand that
she could expect nothing else but that at the name "father" I should
throw myself into his arms. But I could not rise to this dramatic,
or, better, melodramatic, climax. Somehow I could not arouse any
considerable feeling of need for a father. He broke the awkward
tableau by saying: "Well, boy, aren't you glad to see me?" He
evidently meant the words kindly enough, but I don't know what he
could have said that would have had a worse effect; however, my good
breeding came to my rescue, and I answered: "Yes, sir," and went to
him and offered him my hand. He took my hand into one of his, and,
with the other, stroked my head, saying that I had grown into a fine
youngster. He asked me how old I was; which, of course, he must have
done merely to say something more, or perhaps he did so as a test of
my intelligence. I replied: "Twelve, sir." He then made the trite
observation about the flight of time, and we lapsed into another
awkward pause.

My mother was all in smiles; I believe that was one of the happiest
moments of her life. Either to put me more at ease or to show me off,
she asked me to play something for my father. There is only one
thing in the world that can make music, at all times and under all
circumstances, up to its general standard; that is a hand-organ, or
one of its variations. I went to the piano and played something in
a listless, half-hearted way. I simply was not in the mood. I was
wondering, while playing, when my mother would dismiss me and let me
go; but my father was so enthusiastic in his praise that he touched my
vanity--which was great--and more than that; he displayed that sincere
appreciation which always arouses an artist to his best effort, and,