his heart. His love for Kate
was not a part of his life--it was ALL of his life. He was ready now for
any sacrifice, no matter how humiliating. He would go down on his knees
to his father if she wished it. He would beg Willits's pardon--he would
abase himself in any way St. George should suggest. He had done what
he thought was right, and he would do it over again under like
circumstances, but he would grovel at Kate's feet and kiss the ground
she stepped on if she required it of him.

St. George, who had sat quiet, examining closely the backs of his finely
modelled hands as if to find some solution of the difficulty written in
their delicate articulated curves, heard his outburst in silence.
Now and then he would call to Todd, who was never out of reach of his
voice--no matter what the hour--to replenish the fire or snuff the
candles, but he answered only in nods and monosyllables to Harry. One
suggestion only of the heart-broken lover seemed to promise any
result, and that was his making it up with his father as his mother
had suggested. This wall being broken down, and Willits no longer
an invalid, perhaps Kate would see matters in a different and more
favorable light.

"But suppose father doesn't send for me, Uncle George, what will I do
then?"

"Well, he is your father, Harry."

"And you think then I had better go home and have it out with him?"

St. George hesitated. He himself would have seen Rutter in Hades before
he would have apologized to him. In fact his anger choked him so every
time he thought of the brutal and disgraceful scene he had witnessed
when the boy had been ordered from his home, that he could hardly get
his breath. But then Kate was not his sweetheart, much as he loved her.

"I don't know, Harry. I am not his son," he answered in an undecided
way. Then something the boy's mother had said rose in his mind: "Didn't
your mother say that your father's loneliness without you was having its
effect?--and wasn't her advice to wait until he should send for you?"

"Yes--that was about it."

"Well, your mother would know best. Put that question to her next time
she comes in--I'm not competent to answer it. And now let us go to
bed--you are tired out, and so am I."

CHAPTER IX

Mysterious things are happening in Kennedy Square. Only the very wisest
men know what it is all about--black Moses for one, who tramps the brick
walks and makes short cuts through the dirt paths, carrying his t