been my mother's. I had always felt her mocking
smile toward me and all my solemn thoughts. And after that small
catastrophe which I had had with Eleanore, I had more than ever avoided
Sue and her girl friends. Then I had gone to college, and each time that
I came home she had seemed to me all arms and legs, fool secrets and
fool giggles--a most uninteresting kid. I remember being distinctly
surprised when I brought Joe home for Christmas to find that he thought
her quite a girl. But now she was all different. She had grown tall and
graceful, lithe, and in her suit of mourning she looked so much older,
her face thin and worn, subdued and softened by all she'd been through.
For the weight of all those weary weeks had been upon her shoulders.
There was something pitiful about her. I came up and kissed her
awkwardly, then found myself suddenly holding her close. She clung to me
and trembled a little. I found it hard to speak.

"I wish I'd been here, too," I said gruffly.

"I wish you had, Billy--it's been a long time."

All at once Sue and I had become close friends.

We had a long talk, at home that day, and she told me how our parents
had drawn together in the last years, of how my poor mother had wanted
my father close by her side and of how he had responded, neglecting his
business and spending his last dollar on doctors, consultations and
trips to sanitariums, anything to keep up her strength. He had even read
"Pendennis" aloud. How changed he must have been to do that. I knew why
she had wanted to hear it again. It had been our favorite book. I
remembered how I had read it to her just before I went abroad, and how I
had caught her watching me with that hungry despairing look in her eyes.
What a young brute I had been to go!... For a time Sue's voice seemed
far away. Then I heard her telling how over that story of a young author
my mother had talked to my father of me.

"He's going to try to know you, Billy, and help you," said Sue. "He
promised her that before she died. And I hope you're going to help him,
too. He needs you very badly. You never understood father, you know. I
don't believe you have any idea of what he has gone through in his
business."

"What do you mean? Have things gone wrong?"

"I don't understand it very well. He hardly ever speaks of it. I think
he'd better tell you himself."

* * * * *

That evening in his library, from my seat by the table, I furtively