to be the evidence of a deep and abiding joy and relief.
You are my son! he cried. Embrace me.
He rose from his seat and Harold stood up to meet him. The older man grasped the younger man's shoulders. The son tried to encircle his father's waist. This constrained attempt at a display of affection seemed to exhaust them both, and, dropping their arms, they sank back into their chairs. The father was the first to rally.
You are my son! he repeated. My son! Your answers are music to my ears. You are saying exactly what I would have you say. Then, with an air of suspicion, You haven't been warned?
Warned? By whom? The young man sufficiently showed his bewilderment.
George Prewett was reassured. No, he said, Sanderson would never break my trust, betray my confidence. No more, I think, would my sister. It is fate, he cried, fate, which has given me the son I would have asked for, had I asked for a son at all, he wound up, musing on some hidden grief.
Then, with one of those quick transitions which marked his character, Have you had your lunch?
Why yes, father; it is nearly four o'clock.
So it is. So it is. I never know the time. I have been so occupied today that I have forgotten to eat, but the dinner hour is approaching and one meal a day is enough for any man. Well, I'm
