together and alone. We had our meals at first
in a quiet little restaurant on a side street. He had never been in a
restaurant. As the waiter went around the table, the old man watched
him with curious eyes. I have explained that my father never swore. He
was mightily unfortunate in his selection of phrases and when
irritated by the attention of the waiter to the point of explosion he
said, in what he supposed was a whisper: "What th' hell is he dancin'
around us like an Indian fur?" I explained. Everybody in the place
heard the explanation; they also heard his reply: "Send him t'
blazes--he takes m' appetite away!"

We moved into the house of a friend after that.

One afternoon I took him for a walk in the suburbs of the city.

He rested on a rustic bench on the lawn of a beautiful villa while I
made a call.

"Twenty-five years ago," I said to the gentleman of the house, "I had
a great inspiration from the life of a young lady who lived in this
house, and I just called to say 'thank you.'"

"Her father is dead," he said. "I am her uncle."

Then he told me of the career of the city girl I had met on the farm
and whom I had watched entering the church on Sundays.

"About the time you missed her at church," he said, "she was married
to a rich young man. He spent his fortune in liquor and finally ended
his life. She began to drink, after his death, but was persuaded to
leave the country. She went to America. We haven't heard from her for
a long time."

The following Sunday I told my father we were going to church.

"Not me!" he said.

"Oh, yes," I coaxed; "just this once with me."

"What th' divil's the use whin I haave a praycher t' m'silf."

"I am to be the preacher at the church."

"Och, but that's a horse ov another colour, bedad. Shure thin I'll
go."

When my father saw me in a Geneva gown, his eyes were filled with
tears.

The old white-haired lady who found the place in the book for him was
the young lady's mother. Her uncle had ushered him into her pew, but
they had never met each other nor did the old lady know until after
church that he was my father.

He never heard a word of the sermon, but as we emerged from the church
into the street he put his arms around my neck and kissing me said,
"Och, boy, if God wud only take me now I'd be happy!"

He had been listening with his eyes and what he saw so filled him with
joy that he was more willing to leave life than to have the emotion
leave him.