a heaving breast. Vain! vain!
What was the use of speaking? The child's outlook was life; his own was
death; they had no common ground; they spoke different tongues. And,
after all, how could he suffer the sweet innocence of the child's soul
to look down into the stained and scarred chamber of his ruined heart?

"You don't understand me, Philip. I mean that I am going--to die. Yes,
darling, and, only that I am leaving you behind, I should be glad to go.
My life has been wasted, Philip. In the time to come, when men speak
of your father, you will be ashamed. Perhaps you will not remember then
that whatever he was he was a good father to you, for at least he loved
you dearly. Well, I must needs bow to the will of God, but if I could
only hope that you would live to restore my name when I am gone....
Philip, are you--don't cry, my darling. There, there, kiss me. We'll
say no more about it then. Perhaps it's not true, although father tolded
you? Well, perhaps not. And now undress and slip into bed before mother
comes. See, there's your night-dress at the foot of the crib. Wants some
buttons, does it? Never mind--in with you--that's a boy."

Impossible, impossible! And perhaps unnecessary. Who should say? Young
as the child was, he might never forget what he had seen and heard. Some
day it must have its meaning for him. Thus the father comforted
himself. Those jangling quarrels which had often scorched his brain like
iron--the memory of their abject scenes came to him then, with a sort of
bleeding solace!

Meanwhile, with little catching sobs, which he struggled to repress, the
boy lay down in his crib. When half-way gone towards the mists of the
land of sleep, he started up suddenly, and called "Good night, father,"
and his father answered him "Good night."

Towards three o'clock the next morning there was great commotion in the
house. The servant was scurrying up and downstairs, and the mistress,
wringing her hands, was tramping to and fro in the sick-room, crying in
a tone of astonishment, as if the thought had stolen upon her unawares,
"Why, he's going! How didn't somebody tell me before?"

The eyes of the sinking man were on the crib. "Philip," he faltered.
They lifted the boy out of his bed, and brought him in his night-dress
to his father's side; and the father twisted about and took him into his
arms, still half asleep and yawning. Then the mother, recovering from
the stupidity of her surprise, broke into paroxys