Say 'Our Father.'"

Together they whispered those greatest of words in human speech, those
words that have bound heaven to earth in yearning and in hope for these
two thousand years.

"Don't move, Barry," whispered his father. "I like you there."

With their faces thus together they fell asleep.

Barry was awakened by his father's voice, clear and strong.

"Are you there, Barry?" it said.

"Here, dad, right here!"

"Good boy. Good boy. You won't leave me, Barry. I mean you don't need to
go?"

"No, dad, I'll never leave you."

"Good boy," again murmured his father softly. "Always a good boy,
always, always--"

He was breathing heavily, long deep breaths.

"Lift me up, Barry," he said.

Barry sat on the bed, put his arm around his father's shoulders, and
lifted him up.

"That's better--hold me closer, Barry--You won't hurt me--Oh, it's
good--to feel--your arms--strong arms--Barry."

"You made them strong, dad," said Barry, in a clear, steady voice.

The father nestled his head upon his son's shoulder.

"Barry," he said in the low tone of one giving a confidence, "don't
ever forget--to thank God--for these eighteen years--together--You saved
me--from despair--eighteen years ago--when she went away--you know--and
you have been--all the world to me--my son--"

"And you to me, dad," said his son in the same steady tone.

"I've tried all my life--to make you know--how I love you--but somehow I
couldn't--"

"But I knew, dad," said Barry. "All my life I have known."

"Really?" asked his father. "I--wonder--I don't think--you quite
know--Ah--my boy--my boy--You don't--know--you--can't. Barry," he
said, "I think--I'm going out--I'm going--out--no, in--your word--my
boy--in--eh--Barry?"

"Yes, dad," said his son. "Going in. The inner circle, you know."

"The--inner--circle--" echoed his father. "Warmth--light--love--Now--I
think--I'll sleep--Good night--Barry--Oh--my boy,--you--don't
quite--know--Kiss me--Barry--"

Barry kissed him on the lips.

"So--Good--night--"

A deep breath he took; another--Barry waited for the next, but there was
not another.

He laid his father down and looked into his quiet face, touched even
now with the noble stateliness of death. He put his arms about the
unresponsive form, and his face to the cheek still warm.

"Dad, oh, dad," he whispered. "Do you know--do you know--Oh, God, tell
him how I love him. Tell him! Tell him! I never could."

The little V. A. D. came