, but in Philip's presence they were as gall and wormwood, and
whips and scorpions.

"Go, my lad, go," he would sometimes whimper, and hustle the boy out of
the way.

"No," the woman would cry, "stop and see the man your father is."

And the father would mutter, "He might see the woman his mother is as
well."

But when she had pinned them together, and the boy had to hear her out,
the man would drop his forehead on the table and break into groans and
tears. Then the woman would change quite suddenly, and put her arms
about him and kiss him and weep over him. He could defend himself from
neither her insults nor her embraces. In spite of everything he loved
her. That was where the bitterness of the evil lay. But for the love he
bore her, he might have got her off his back and been his own man once
more. He would make peace with her and kiss her again, and they would
both kiss the boy, and be tender, and even cheerful.

Philip was still a child, but he saw the relations of his parents, and
in his own way he understood everything. He loved his father best, but
he did not hate his mother. She was nearly always affectionate, though
often jealous of the father's greater love and care for him, and
sometimes irritable from that cause alone. But the frequent broils
between them were like blows that left scars on his body. He slept in a
cot in the same room, and he would cover up his head in the bedclothes
at night with a feeling of fear and physical pain.

A man cannot fight against himself for long. That deadly enemy is
certain to slay. When Philip was six years old his father lay sick of
his last sickness. The wife had fallen into habits of intemperance by
this time, and stage by stage she had descended to the condition of an
utterly degraded woman. There was something to excuse her. She had been
disappointed in the great stakes of life; she had earned disgrace
where she had looked for admiration. She was vain, and could not bear
misfortune; and she had no deep well of love from which to drink when
the fount of her pride ran dry. If her husband had indulged her with a
little pity, everything might have gone along more easily. But he had
only loved her and been ashamed. And now that he lay near to his death,
the love began to ebb and the shame to deepen into dread.

He slept little at night, and as often as he closed his eyes certain
voices of mocking and reproach seemed to be constantly humming in his
ears.

"Your son