ry shock he came to realise that his own son was in a
critical condition. As a father he reproached himself for neglecting the
boy under the plea of trying to reform the state. And when he began to
question Louis that night he rapidly noted the lad's physical condition
and took account of his manner which, the more he studied it, was not at
all reassuring.

"Tell me, now, Louis, what you want. Begin at the beginning and hide
nothing."

Louis looked sullenly at his father.

"You haven't time to listen to me. You never have."

"Yes, I have. I'll take it." Paul felt more self-reproach every minute
he eyed Louis. And as he looked at him he could not help thinking of how
much the boy resembled in many ways Esther's brother Louis, who used to
give him such concern.

"Well, father, I want to quit High School. I don't like it. I hate it."

"Why? Tell me honestly now. I can't help you unless you give me the real
facts."

"I don't like the teachers. They nag me. I hate them."

"Hate them? You mean all of your teachers?"

"Well, most of them. They criticise me and make fun of me. Miss Barrows
showed what I wrote about tuberculosis to every other teacher in the
school."

"Go on," said Paul, after a pause.

"I can't get the English. I don't understand the long definitions. I am
not cut out for a scholar."

"Have you tried?"

"Yes, I have. But the harder I try, the worse it is."

"What lessons are you carrying?"

"English, algebra, physics, manual training, German and chemistry."

"Tell me now," said Paul good-naturedly, "which one of all these studies
you hate the least."

Louis laughed. "I don't like any studies."

"But which one would you choose first if you couldn't help yourself?"

"Manual training."

"What do you do in that?"

"Oh, I plane and saw and glue up boards and make things."

"What things?"

Louis hesitated. "You'll laugh."

"No, I won't." Paul felt more like crying than laughing as Louis eyed
him doubtfully.

"Great God!" he felt like saying to himself. "Here I have been so busy
with everybody else's affairs that my own son is afraid of me."

"Well, I finished a writing desk the other day. I was going to give it
to mother for her birthday. I brought it home last night."

"A writing desk! Let me see it."

"It's in my room," Louis said with some hesitation.

"I want to see it," said Paul. He rose to go up stairs and had got as
far as the hall when the telephone rang.

"Go on. I'l