"I would speak with Tom," said the Squire. "There are things I
needs must say to him ere I close my eyes for ever. Perchance I
have already delayed too long. Yet I have waited and waited, hoping
for signs of seriousness in one so soon to lose a parent. But
seriousness and Tom have no dealings together, it would seem. God
forgive us if it be any lack on our part that has made our son the
wild young blade that he seems like to be!"

A little sob broke from the mother's lips. It was the bitterest
thought of all to the parents; and yet they could not see wherein
they had erred. They had striven to bring up the boy well. He had
had the same training as his father before him. There had been no
lack of firmness, and no lack of love, but the result, as at
present seen, was terrible to the father and mother.

The squire heard the stifled sound of grief, and put out his hand
to clasp that of his wife.

"Remember he is the child of many prayers," he said. "We must
believe that those prayers will be answered. We must have faith in
God."

"I will try--I will try," answered the poor mother; "but oh, my
husband, how shall I hope to cope with that wild spirit when you
are gone?"

It was a hard question to answer, for the Squire himself had found
his son more than a match for him many a time. It was true that he
had done all that man can do to protect wife and daughter from the
reckless extravagance of an ungoverned nature; but he knew well