! He knew in an
instant when I was worried. I had dreams of what that boy would become,
but I was too sure of it. I went on doing other things--there were so
many things, and I was a slave to them. And before I knew it, he'd gone
off to school. That was the year I moved up here, and my wife died. And
after that, all seemed to go wrong. Perhaps I was too severe; perhaps
they didn't understand him at boarding-school; perhaps I didn't pay
enough attention to him. At any rate, the first thing I knew his whole
nature seemed to have changed. He got into scrape after scrape at
Harvard, and later he came within an ace of marrying a woman.

"He's my weakness to-day. I can say no to everybody in the world but to
him, and when I try to remember him as he used to come down those steps
on Ransome Street....

"He never knew how much I cared--that what I was doing was all for
him, building for him, that he might carry on my work. I had dreams of
developing this city, the great Southwest, and after I had gone Preston
was to bring them to fruition.

"For some reason I never was able to tell him all this--as I am telling
you. The words would not come. We had grown apart. And he seemed to
think--God knows why!--he seemed to think I disliked him. I had Langmaid
talk to him, and other men I trusted--tell him what an unparalleled
opportunity he had to be of use in the world. Once I thought I had him
started straight and then a woman came along--off the streets, or little
better. He insisted on marrying her and wrecking his life, and when I
got her out of the way, as any father would have done, he left me. He
has never forgiven me. Most of the time I haven't even the satisfaction
of knowing were he is--London, Paris, or New York. I try not to think
of what he does. I ought to cut him off,--I can't do it--I can't do it,
Hodder--he's my one weakness still. I'm afraid--he'd sink out of sight
entirely, and it's the one hold I have left on him."

Eldon Parr paused, with a groan that betokened not only a poignant
sorrow, but also something of relief--for the tortures of not being able
to unburden himself had plainly become intolerable. He glanced up and
met the compassionate eyes of the rector, who stood leaning against the
mantel.

"With Alison it was different," he said. "I never understood her--even
when she was a child--and I used to look at her and wonder that she
could be my daughter. She was moody, intense, with a yearning for
affectio