the
change his mother must see in him should be as little as possible
attributable to other causes than those that years bring with them. To
this was added that his own health had begun to suffer from the watching
and anxiety he had gone through, and for his father's sake, as well as
for the labour which yet lay before him, he would keep that as sound
as he might. He wrote to his grandmother and explained the matter. She
begged him to do as he thought best, for she was so happy that she did
not care if she should never see Andrew in this world: it was enough to
die in the hope of meeting him in the other. But she had no reason to
fear that death was at hand; for, although much more frail, she felt as
well as ever.

By this time Falconer had introduced me to his father. I found him in
some things very like his son; in others, very different. His manners
were more polished; his pleasure in pleasing much greater: his humanity
had blossomed too easily, and then run to seed. Alas, to no seed
that could bear fruit! There was a weak expression about his mouth--a
wavering interrogation: it was so different from the firmly-closed
portals whence issued the golden speech of his son! He had a sly,
sidelong look at times, whether of doubt or cunning, I could not always
determine. His eyes, unlike his son's, were of a light blue, and
hazy both in texture and expression. His hands were long-fingered and
tremulous. He gave your hand a sharp squeeze, and the same instant
abandoned it with indifference. I soon began to discover in him a
tendency to patronize any one who showed him a particle of respect
as distinguished from common-place civility. But under all outward
appearances it seemed to me that there was a change going on: at least
being very willing to believe it, I found nothing to render belief
impossible.

He was very fond of the flute his son had given him, and on that
sweetest and most expressionless of instruments he played exquisitely.

One evening when I called to see them, Falconer said,

'We are going out of town for a few weeks, Gordon: will you go with us?'

'I am afraid I can't.'

'Why? You have no teaching at present, and your writing you can do as
well in the country as in town.'

'That is true; but still I don't see how I can. I am too poor for one
thing.'

'Between you and me that is nonsense.'

'Well, I withdraw that,' I said. 'But there is so much to be done,
specially as you will be away, and Miss