Ben.'

'You are a strange lad,' said my father; 'and, though of late I have
begun to entertain a more favourable opinion than heretofore, there is
still much about you that I do not understand. Why do you bring up that
name? Don't you know that it is one of my temptations: you wish to know
something about him. Well! I will oblige you this once, and then
farewell to such vanities--something about him. I will tell you--his--skin
when he flung off his clothes--and he had a particular knack in doing
so--his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back for combat; and
when he fought he stood, so . . . . if I remember right--his skin, I say,
was brown and dusky as that of a toad. Oh me! I wish my elder son was
here.'

CHAPTER XXVIII

My brother's arrival--The interview--Night--A dying father--Christ.

At last my brother arrived; he looked pale and unwell; I met him at the
door. 'You have been long absent,' said I.

'Yes,' said he, 'perhaps too long; but how is my father?'

'Very poorly,' said I, 'he has had a fresh attack; but where have you
been of late?'

'Far and wide,' said my brother; 'but I can't tell you anything now, I
must go to my father. It was only by chance that I heard of his
illness.'

'Stay a moment,' said I. 'Is the world such a fine place as you supposed
it to be before you went away?'

'Not quite,' said my brother, 'not quite; indeed I wish--but ask me no
questions now, I must hasten to my father.' There was another question
on my tongue, but I forbore; for the eyes of the young man were full of
tears. I pointed with my finger, and the young man hastened past me to
the arms of his father.

I forbore to ask my brother whether he had been to old Rome.

What passed between my father and brother I do not know; the interview,
no doubt, was tender enough, for they tenderly loved each other; but my
brother's arrival did not produce the beneficial effect upon my father
which I at first hoped it would; it did not even appear to have raised
his spirits. He was composed enough, however: 'I ought to be grateful,'
said he; 'I wished to see my son, and God has granted me my wish; what
more have I to do now than to bless my little family and go?'

My father's end was evidently at hand.

And did I shed no tears? did I breathe no sighs? did I never wring my
hands at this period? the reader will perhaps be asking. Whatever I did
and thought is best known to God and myself; but it will b