torture from this ordeal of accepting the hatred of his son in order that
he might do what he considered to be his duty? At length the young man
said: "I'm here, father."

"Be seated--just a minute," said the father, turning his face toward his
boy but unable to look even in that direction.

The letter was finished, and the stenographer gathered up her notes and
withdrew. Hiram sat nerving himself, his distress accentuating the stern
strength of his features. Presently he said: "I see you haven't come
dressed for work."

"Oh, I think these clothes will do for the office," said Arthur, with
apparent carelessness.

"But this business isn't run from the office," replied Hiram, with a
gentle smile that to the young man looked like the sneer of a tyrant.
"It's run from the mill. It prospers--it always has prospered--because
I work with the men. I know what they ought to do and what they are
doing. We all work together here. There ain't a Sunday clothes job
about the place."

Arthur's fingers were trembling as he pulled at his small mustache. What
did this tyrant expect of him? He had assumed that a place was to be made
for him in the office, a dignified place. There he would master the
business, would gather such knowledge as might be necessary successfully
to direct it, and would bestow that knowledge in the humble,
out-of-the-way corner of his mind befitting matters of that kind. And
here was his father, believing that the same coarse and toilsome methods
which had been necessary for himself were necessary for a trained and