"Are you ready to tell me the truth now?"

In one moment of time the child lived over again the beautiful hour at
his mother's grave. He saw again the silver spire and the silver
half-moon and the silver star--smelled the blended odors of honeysuckle
and rose, made sweeter, by the gathering dews, and felt the coolness and
freshness of the long green grass that covered the grave. Who knew but
that deep down under the sweet grass she had been conscious he was
there--had felt his heart beat and heard his loving whispers as of old,
and loved him still, and understood, though she would see him nevermore?
Share the secret of that holy hour with anyone--of all people, with this
wrathful, blind, unsympathizing man who had just confessed himself a
stranger to him? Never!

A faint smile, full of peace, settled upon his poet's face, but he
answered never a word.

There was a stir at the door. John Allan looked toward it. His wife
stood there drying her eyes. He turned to the boy again.

"Go with your mother and get your supper," he commanded.

"I don't want it," was the reply.

"Well, go to bed then, and tomorrow afternoon you are to spend in your
own room, where I hope meditation upon your idle ways may bring you to
something like repentance."

The boy paused half-way to the door. "Tomorrow is the day I'm going
swimming with the boys. You promised that I might go."