girl's. He watched the dry wood of the fire as it blazed and fell apart
and blazed up brightly again, yet his eyes did not seem to see
it--their absorbed gaze was inward.

The distant door of the room swung open, but the man did not hear, and,
his head and face clear cut like a cameo against the dark leather, hands
stretched nervelessly along the arms of the chair, eyes gazing gloomily
into the heart of the flame, he was still. A young man, brilliant with
strength, yet with a worn air about him, and deep circles under his
eyes, stood inside the room and looked at him a long minute--those two
in the silence. The fire crackled cheerfully and the old man sighed.

"Father!" said the young man by the door.

In a second the whole pose changed, and he sat intense, staring, while
the son came toward him and stood across the rug, against the dark wood
of the Florentine fireplace, a picture of young manhood which any father
would he proud to own.

"Of course, I don't know if you want me, father," he said, "but I've
come to tell you that I'll be a good boy, if you do."

The gentle, half-joking manner was very winning, and the play of his
words was trembling with earnest. The older man's face shone as if lamps
were lighted behind his eyes.

"If I want you, Ted!" he said, and held out his hand.

With a quick step forward the lad caught it, and then, with quick
impulsiveness, as if his childhood came back to him on the flood of