"Yes."

"Where?"

"Oh, just out of doors; perhaps to the boat-house."

"Boy."

"Yes, Mother?"

"What is the matter? Something has gone wrong; I knew it as soon as you
came in. What is it?"

"Nothing. That is, nothing of any consequence. I'm a little out of sorts
to-day and that man's letter irritates me. I'll get over it. I'll be
back soon. Good-by, Mother."

"Good-by, Boy."

I went out through the dining room and kitchen, to the back yard, where,
seating myself on Lute's favorite resting place, the wash bench, I lit
my pipe and sat thinking, gloomily thinking.



CHAPTER III


It is a dreadful thing to hate one's own father; to hate him and be
unable to forgive him even though he is dead, although he paid for his