"Do you mean that you still love me, son?"

"Yes, father, I still love you. I want to try to help you. Come with
me."

Then the boy would gaze about and ask, "Where is your hat?"

"Hat, my son? I don't know. I have lost it." The boy would see his
torn and mud-stained clothing, and the poor old pitiful face, with
the eyes blood-shot and swollen, and the skin, that had been rosy,
and was now a ghastly, ashen gray. He would choke back his feelings,
and grip his hands to keep himself together.

"Come, father, take my hat, and let us go."

"No, my son. I don't need any hat. Nothing can hurt me--I am lost!
Lost!"

So they would go out, arm in arm; and while they made their progress
up the Highway, the man would pour out his remorse, and tell the
story of his weeks of horror.

Then, after a mile or so, he would halt.

"My son!"

"What is it, father?"

"I must stop here, son."