Finally the dying man stirred uneasily, muttering, "I dreamed that he had come."
"I am here." Brent's voice sounded strange to him.
The eyes opened, and the sufferer gazed at him. "Are you—"
"I am your son."
"You— why, I— saw you—"
"You saw me in Cincinnati at the door of a beer-garden." He felt as if he had struck the man before him with a lash. "Did— you— go in?"
"No: I went to your temperance meeting."
The elder Brent did not hear the ill-concealed bitterness in his son's voice. "Thank God," he said. "You heard— my— story, an'— it leaves me— less— to tell. Something— made me speak— to you that— night. Come nearer. Will— you— shake hands with— me?"
Fred reached over and took the clammy hand in his own.
"I have— had— a pore life," the now fast weakening man went on; "an' I have— done wrong— by— you, but I— have— repented. Will you forgive me?"
Something came up into Brent's heart and burned there like a flame.
