which I just fitted;" and the
boy glanced over westward with hungering eyes.

"But, Jack," said his father, after a pause, "I think people oftener fit
themselves into a place. There are so few places ready made to one's
hand. It's always something. Now, I'll venture to say that David
Lawrence, with all his money, doesn't see as much real happiness as I
do. His is a slave's life, after all. It's day and night, bills to pay
and stock to get, dissatisfied hands, poor hands spoiling work, losses
here and there, little leisure, small peace of mind; and all for what?
There was a time when I might have envied him: I don't now."

Jack had lost all but the first two sentences.

"That's the thing!" he cried, with boyish enthusiasm,--"fitting
yourself; coming to something that takes hold of you like an
inspiration; that you could work for, fight for, that rouses soul and
body."

Bernard Darcy studied the youthful face, eager, alert, hopeful, and with
something else in it that he could not understand.

"I never had any such dreams or desires," he said in an uncertain tone,
as if fearful he might lose his way among his son's vagaries. "I wanted
a pleasant home, and a loving wife and children. I wish there had been
more of them, Jack, for your sake," and his voice took on a tender
inflection. "Then, if one wanted to go away, there would have been
others left. You see, Jack, mother's heart is bound up in you, and she's
getting to be an old woman with but few ties. I might manage to comfort
your own mother; but you are so young, Jack. There will be many years
before you, doubtless; and if you could give a few to us," with a
wistful, loving look. "Now, if you wanted to study"--

"But I don't," in a hasty, husky tone. "I believe I hate quiet. I want
life, adventure! I've staid in school this last year just to please
Larry."

"Have a little patience, Jack. Old people are not like young ones. They
feel the changes keenly. And you are all we have. It would take the
sunshine out of our lives. It would seem as if there had been a
funeral."

"Yes," said Jack with meek hopelessness that one would hardly look for
in a vigorous boy; and winking hard to keep back some tears. No logical
argument, no stricture of duty, could have half the weight of this bit
of love pleading. Father was right. God had made him a son first of all,
given him a son's duties. Jack had never troubled his head much about
religion in any theological sense; but his