watched my father's face. He sat in a huge chair against the wall, with
a smaller chair in front for his feet, his vest unbuttoned, his short
heavy body settled low as he grimly kept his eyes on his book. The
strong overhead light which shone on his face showed me the deeper
lines, all the wrinkles, the broad loose pouch of skin on the throat,
the gray color, the pain, the weakness and the age in his motionless
eyes. What was going on in there? Sometimes it would seem an hour before
he turned another page. All afternoon he had been at her grave.

He had given her no happy life. Was it of that he was thinking? I felt
ashamed to be wondering, for he seemed so weak and old in his grief. Two
years ago his hair had been gray, but he had still looked strong and
hale. I could hardly feel now that he was the same man. I felt drawn to
him now, I wished he would put down his book and talk and tell me
everything about her.

But what an embarrassing job it is to get acquainted with one's father.
When Sue had left us after dinner, there had been a few brief remarks
and then this long tense silence. I, too, pretended to be reading.

"Your mother thought a lot of you, boy." He spoke at last so abruptly
that I looked up at him with a start, and saw him watching me anxiously.

"Yes, sir." I looked quickly down, and our eyes did not meet again after
that.

"It was her pluck that kept you in Paris--while she was dying."

I choked:

"I know."

"You don't know--not how she wanted you back--you'll never know. I
wanted to write you to come home."

"I wish you had!"

"She wouldn't hear of it!"

"I see." Another silence. Why couldn't I think of something to say?

"She kept every letter you wrote her. They're up there in her bureau
drawer. She was always reading 'em--over and over. She thought a lot of
your writing, boy--of what you would do when--when she was dead." The
last came out almost fiercely. I waited a moment, got hold of myself.

"Yes, sir," I brought out at last.

"I hope you'll make it all worth while."

"I will. I'll try. I'll do my best." I did not look up, for I could
still feel his anxious eyes upon my face.

"Do you want to go back to Paris?"

"No, sir! I want to stay right here!" What was the matter with my fool
voice?

"Have you got any plans for your writing here? How are you going about
it to start?"

"Well, sir, to begin with--I've got some stuff I did abroad."

"Stories?"

"Not exactly----"