besides buying and selling."

"And working?" suggested Hiram.

"Yes--and what you call working," retorted Arthur, angry through and
through. "You sent me East to college to get the education of a man in my
position."

"What is your position?" inquired Hiram--simply an inquiry.

"Your son," replied the young man; "trying to make the best use of the
opportunities you've worked so hard to get for me. I'm not you, father.
You'd despise me if I didn't have a character, an individuality, of my
own. Yet, because I can't see life as you see it, you are angry with me."

For answer Hiram only heaved his great shoulders in another suppressed
sigh. He _knew_ profoundly that he was right, yet his son's
plausibilities--they could only be plausibilities--put him clearly in the
wrong. "We'll see," he said; "we'll see. You're wrong in thinking I'm
angry, boy." He was looking at his son now, and his eyes made his son's
passion vanish. He got up and went to the young man and laid his hand on
his shoulder in a gesture of affection that moved the son the more
profoundly because it was unprecedented. "If there's been any wrong
done," said the old man--and he looked very, very old now--"I've done it.
I'm to blame--not you."

A moment after Hiram left the room, Adelaide hurried in. A glance at her
brother reassured her. They stood at the window watching their father as
he walked up and down the garden, his hands behind his back, his
shoulders stooped, his powerful head bent.