"Robbed him?"

"You took his self-respect. A young man's dignity, at twenty-four, is
as precious to him as a woman's modesty. You stole it. Yes; you robbed
him. Our Heavenly Father doesn't do that, when He punishes us. We lose
our dignity ourselves; but He never robs us of it. Did ye ever notice
that? Well; you robbed Samuel. My--my--_my!_" Dr. Lavendar sighed
wearily. For, indeed, the matter looked very dark. Here was the moment
he had prayed for--the readiness of one or the other of the two men to
take the first step towards reconciliation. Such readiness, he had
thought, would mean the healing of the dreadful wound, whatever it
was; forgiveness on the father's part of some terrible wrong-doing,
forgiveness on the son's part of equally terrible hardness of heart.
Instead he found a cruel and ridiculous mortification, made permanent
by thirty-two unpardoning years. Here was no sin to command the
dreadful dignity of repentance, with its divine response of
forgiveness. The very lack of seriousness in the cause made the effect
more serious. He looked over at the older man, and shook his head....
How could they pay their debts to each other, this father and son?
Could Benjamin Wright return the self-respect he had stolen away?
Could Samuel offer that filial affection which should have blessed all
these empty years? A wickedly ludicrous memory forbade the solemnity
of a reconciliation: below any attempt the father might make, there
would be a grin, somewhere; below any attempt the son might make,
there would be a cringe, somewhere. The only possible hope was in
absolute, flat commonplace. Play-writing, as a subject of
conversation, was out of the question!

"Benjamin," he said with agitation, "I thank God that you are willing
to see Samuel; but you must promise me not to refer to Sam's play. You