"I've been your son all my life," said Billy, darkly.

"I am often gratified," piped the Governor, betraying a touch of
complacency, "by being congratulated upon having a son with such
sound and sterling qualities. Especially in this, our native town,
is your name linked with mine in the talk of our citizens."

"I never knew anyone to forget the vindculum," murmured Billy,
unintelligibly.

"Whatever prestige," pursued the parent, "I may be possessed of,
by virtue of my name and services to the state, has been yours to
draw upon freely. I have not hesitated to exert it in your behalf
whenever opportunity offered. And you have deserved it, William.
You've been the best of sons. And now this appointment comes to take
you away from me. I have but a few years left to live. I am almost
dependent upon others now, even in walking and dressing. What would
I do without you, my son?"

The Governor's pipe dropped to the floor. A tear trickled from his
eye. His voice had risen, and crumbled to a weakling falsetto, and
ceased. He was an old, old man about to be bereft of a son that
cherished him.

Billy rose, and laid his hand upon the Governor's shoulder.

"Don't worry, father," he said, cheerfully. "I'm not going to
accept. Elmville is good enough for me. I'll write to-night and
decline it."