the narrow partings of the heavy curtains.

What was it that had happened to him? Had he been ill? Had he
died and
come to life again? Or had he only slept, and had his soul gone
visiting
in dreams? He sat for some time, motionless, not lost, but
finding himself
in thought. Then he took a narrow book from the table drawer,
wrote a check, and tore it out.

He went slowly up the stairs, knocked very softly at his son's
door,
and, hearing no answer, entered without noise. Harold was
asleep,
his bare arm thrown above his head, and his eager face relaxed in
peace.
His father looked at him a moment with strangely shining eyes,
and then tiptoed quietly to the writing-desk, found a pencil and
a sheet of paper, and wrote rapidly:

"My dear boy, here is what you asked me for; do what you like
with it,
and ask for more if you need it. If you are still thinking of
that work with Grenfell, we'll talk it over to-day after church.

I want to know your heart better; and if I have made mistakes--"

A slight noise made him turn his head. Harold was sitting up in
bed