with the girl?"

"Paul is not my son," the lady calmly answered.

"But the girl is your daughter," Silas insisted.

"I shall look after her welfare, never fear," said the lady.

"But suppose they should take a notion to marry; what would you do to
stop 'em?"

"Oh, well, that is a question for the future," replied the lady,
serenely. "It will be time enough to discuss that matter when the
necessity arises."

Her composure, her indifference, caused Silas to writhe and squirm in
his chair, and she, seeing the torture she was inflicting, appeared to
be very well content.

"I didn't come to argue," said Silas presently. "I came for information;
I want to know what you intend to do. I don't ask any favours and I
don't want any; I'm getting my deserts, I reckon. What I sowed that I'm
reaping."

"Ah!" the lady exclaimed softly, and with an air of satisfaction. "Do
you really feel so?" She leaned forward a little, and there was that in
her eyes that denoted something else besides satisfaction; compassion
shone there. Her mood had not been a serious one up to this point, but
she was serious now, and Silas could but observe how beautiful she was.
"Do you really feel that I would be justified if I confirmed the
suspicions you have expressed?"

"So far as I am concerned, you'd be doing exactly right," said Silas
bluntly. "But what about Paul?"

"Well, what about Paul?" Mrs. Claiborne asked.

"Well, for one thing, he's never done you any harm. And there's another
thing," said Silas rising from his seat: "I'd be willing to have my body
pulled to pieces, inch by inch, and my bones broken, piece by piece, to
save that boy one single pang."

He stood towering over the lady. For once he had been taken clean out of
himself, and he seemed to be transfigured. Mrs. Claiborne rose also.

"Paul is a very good young man," she said.

"Yes, he is!" exclaimed Silas. "He never had a mean thought, and he has
never been guilty of a mean action. But that would make no difference in
my feelings. It would be all the same to me if he was a thief and a
scoundrel or if he was deformed, or if he was everything that he is not.
No matter what he was or might be, I would be willing to live in eternal
torment if I could know that he is happy."

His face was not weazened now. It was illuminated with his love for his
son, the one passion of his life, and he was no longer a contemptible
figure. The lady refixed her eyes upon him, and wondered how