ever he
might prove. He held himself rigidly as he waited, and he could feel
the muscles of his face setting themselves into hard lines.

When the door opened and some one approached him, he rose stiffly and
held out his hand like an automaton.

"How do you do, Mr. Lannithorne? I am Oliver Pickersgill, and I have
come--I have come--"

His voice trailed off into silence, for he had raised his eyes
perfunctorily {37} to Peter Lannithorne's face, and the things printed
there made him forget himself and the speech he had prepared.

He saw a massive head topping an insignificant figure. A fair man was
Peter Lannithorne, with heavy reddish hair, a bulging forehead, and
deep-set gray eyes with a light behind them. His features were
irregular and unnoticeable, but the sum-total of them gave the
impression of force. It was a strong face, yet you could see that it
had once been a weak one. It was a tremendously human face, a face
like a battle ground, scarred and seamed and lined with the stress of
invisible conflicts. There was so much of struggle and thought set
forth in it that one involuntarily averted one's gaze. It did not seem
decent to inspect so much of the soul of a man as was shown in Peter
{38} Lannithorne's countenance. Not a triumphant face at all, and yet
there was peace in it. Somehow, the man had achieved something,
arrived somewhere, and the record of the journey was piteous and
terrible. Yet it drew the eyes in awe as much as in wonder, and in
pity not at all!

These things were startlingly clear to Oliver. He saw them with a
vividness not to be overestimated. This was a prison. This might be a
convict, but he was a man. He was a man who knew things and would
share his knowledge. His wisdom was as patent as his suffering, and
both stirred young Oliver's heart to its depths. His pride, his
irritation, his rigidity vanished in a flash. His fears were in
abeyance. Only his wonder and his will to learn were left.

Lannithorne did not take the offered {39} hand, yet did not seem to
ignore it. He came forward quietly and sat down on the window-seat,
half turning so that he and Oliver faced each other.

"Oliver Pickersgill?" he said. "Then you are Oliver Pickersgill's
son."

"Yes, Mr. Lannithorne. My father sent me here--my father, and Mrs.
Lannithorne, and Ruth."

At his daughter's name a light leaped into Peter Lannithorne's eyes
that made him look even more acutely and painfully alive than before.

"A