oved form speeding
toward them over the green, and, bubbling over with fun, laughter, high
health and spirits, just as of old went bounding joyously, confidently,
to meet him.

Of just what was passing in Oswald Dwight's bewildered mind that morning
God alone could judge and tell. All his soldier life he had loved truth
and hated a lie. All his fond and confident teaching of his only boy,
Margaret's darling and his hope and pride, had been to speak the truth,
frankly, fearlessly, fully, first, last and all the time. "Never fear to
come to me with anything you may have done. Never let anything tempt you
to swerve from the truth and the whole truth. Nothing you can ever say
or do will ever so hurt me as will a lie." And so, fearlessly and fully,
from the time Jim had begun to prattle he had learned to own his little
faults, sure of sympathy and forgiveness. He had learned to strive to
conquer them for the sake of the love and trust that was so unfailing,
and in response to the grave but ever gentle admonition, and it had been
the father's fond belief for years that between him and his only son
there lived utter confidence and faith, that Jim would ever shrink from
a lie and never from him. Between the two, father and son, never had
there seemed to come a shadow, until of late that darkly beautiful face
had for the time, at least, replaced--that other. Since then, time and
again when Dwight spoke of his pride and trust in Jim, the new wife had
listened, unresponsive. Since that last night in Naples, whenever Dwight
spoke of his confidence in Jimmy's word she had sometimes looked up
appealingly, timidly, as though she longed to believe as he believed,
yet could not--quite. Sometimes she had looked away. Once or twice she
had ventured a faint negation. Jimmy would not _deliberately_ tell a
falsehood; oh, she was _sure_ of that, but, like all children, she said,
when suddenly accused, the impulse would be to deny, would it not? and
then--had not the major observed?--did he not remember--that Jimmy was
just a bit--imaginative? Dwight puzzled over her apparent unbelief.

But very recently he had noticed other little things that vaguely
worried him. Could it be that, as his boy grew older and mingled more
with other boys, he was learning to be influenced more by them and less
by the father? Could it be that he was seeing, hearing, things, to speak
of which he dared not? There might be things of which he would be
ashamed. Certai