hing sure
one way or another." Perhaps there may be a mistake, though he could not
understand how. He would go direct to Thomas Strong and ask him.

He had no appetite for breakfast, so he ate none. As early as he thought
wise, he set out. How should he meet Lucy? What could he say? If he
could only evade her.

No; Lucy was watching for him, with a worried expression on her face,
which deepened when she saw Chester's.

"I must see your father," he said with no effort to even take her hand.

"Papa is not any better, I fear."

"But I must see him. Where is Uncle Gilbert?"

"Shall I call him?"

"Yes, _please_."

Lucy returned, and Uncle Gilbert met Chester in the hall.

"He is very nervous again this morning, and I don't think you ought to
excite him," explained the brother.

"I must see him--just for a minute. I'll not engage him in any extended
conversation."

"That you cannot do as he can hardly speak. His trouble affects him in
that way."

"Let me see him just for a moment--alone, please. Is he awake?"

"Oh yes; he's not that bad. Go in a moment, then, but be careful."

Chester passed in where the minister sat in an arm chair, propped up
with pillows, signs of Lucy's tender care. As Chester entered, the man
smiled and reached out his hand. The resentment in the young man's heart
vanished, when he saw the yearning in the suffering man's face. Yet he
stood for some time rooted to the spot, looking at the man who was no
doubt his father. Every line of that face stood out boldly to Chester.
How often, in his boyhood days he had pictured to himself what his
father was like--and here he was before him. In those days he had nursed
a hatred against that unknown sire, but now there was no more of that.
If only,--Chester kneeled by the side of the minister's chair, letting
the old man cling to his hand. He looked without wavering into the drawn
face and said:

"Are you my father?"

The man's hand dropped as if lifeless, but Chester picked it up again,
holding it close.

"Tell me," he repeated, "are you my father?"

"Yes," came slowly and with effort, as tremblingly the father put his
hands first on Chester's shoulders as he kneeled before him, then raised
them to his head, asking, "Do--you--hate--me? Don't--" That seemed to be
all he was able to articulate.

"No, no; I do not hate you; for are you not--are you not my father!"

"Yes."

The son put his arms around his father's neck and kissed him. The f