he was more calm he thought, "He
will go home with a religious testimony on his lips, he will die happy,
and the man who has spent all his days in drunkenness, killed his wife,
and damned his son will be preached through the gates of glory on the
strength of a few words of familiar cant." There came into his mind a
great contempt for the system which taught or preached so absurd and
unfair a doctrine. "I wish I could go to the other side of the world,"
he said, "and live among heathens who know no such dreams. I, Frederick
Brent, son of Tom Brent, temperance advocate, sometime drunkard and
wife-beater." There was terrible, scorching irony in the thought. There
was a pitiless hatred in his heart for his father's very name.

"I suppose," he went on, "that Uncle 'Liph"--he said the name
tenderly--"has my letter now and will be writing to me to come home and
hear my father's dying words, and receive perhaps his dying
blessing,--his dying blessing! But I will not go; I will not go back."
Anger, mingled with shame at his origin and a greater shame at himself,
flamed within him. "He did not care for the helpless son sixteen years
ago: let him die without the sight of the son now. His life has cursed
my life, his name has blasted my name, his blood has polluted my blood.
Let him die as he lived--without me."

He dropped into a chair and struck the table with his clenched fists.

Mrs. Jones came to the door to ask him not to make so much noise. He
buried his face in his hands, and sat there thinking, thinking, until
morning.

CHAPTER XVI

Next morning when Brent went down to breakfast he was as a man who had
passed through an illness. His eyes were bloodshot, his face was pale,
his step was nervous and weak.

"Just what I expected," muttered Mrs. Jones. "He was in a beastly
condition last night. I shall speak to Mr. Perkins about it. He had no
right to take and get him in such a state."

She was more incensed than ever when the gay young clerk came in looking
perfectly fresh. "He 's used to it," she told herself, "and it does n't
tell on him, but it 's nearly killed that poor young man."

"Hullo there, Brent," said Perkins. "You chucked me for good last night.
Did you lose your way, or was your 'character' too interesting?"

"Character too interesting," was the laconic reply.

"And I 'll bet you 've been awake all night studying it out."

"You are entirely right there," said Brent, smiling bitterly. "I have