see it, you are angry with me."

For answer Hiram only heaved his great shoulders in another suppressed
sigh. He _knew_ profoundly that he was right, yet his son's
plausibilities--they could only be plausibilities--put him clearly in the
wrong. "We'll see," he said; "we'll see. You're wrong in thinking I'm
angry, boy." He was looking at his son now, and his eyes made his son's
passion vanish. He got up and went to the young man and laid his hand on
his shoulder in a gesture of affection that moved the son the more
profoundly because it was unprecedented. "If there's been any wrong
done," said the old man--and he looked very, very old now--"I've done it.
I'm to blame--not you."

A moment after Hiram left the room, Adelaide hurried in. A glance at her
brother reassured her. They stood at the window watching their father as
he walked up and down the garden, his hands behind his back, his
shoulders stooped, his powerful head bent.

"Was he very angry?" asked Del.

"He wasn't angry at all," her brother replied. "I'd much rather he had
been." Then, after a pause, he added: "I thought the trouble between us
was that, while I understood him, he didn't understand me. Now I know
that he has understood me but that I don't understand him"--and, after a
pause--"or myself."

CHAPTER III

MRS. WHITNEY INTERVENES

As Hiram had always been silent and seemingly abstracted, no one but
Ellen noted the radical change in him. She had brought up her children in
the old-fashioned way--her thoughts, and usually her eyes, upon them all
day, and one ear open all night. When she no longer had them to guard,
she turned all this energy of solicitude to her husband; thus the
passionate love of her youth was having a healthy, beautiful old age. The
years of circumventing the easily roused restiveness of her spirited boy
and girl had taught her craft; without seeming to be watching Hiram, no
detail of his appearance or actions escaped her.

"There's mighty little your pa don't see," had been one of her stock
observations to the children from their earliest days. "And you needn't
flatter yourselves he don't care because he don't speak." Now she noted
that from under his heavy brows his eyes were looking stealthily out,
more minutely observant than ever before, and that what he saw either
added to his sadness or took a color of sadness from his mood. She
guessed that the actions of Adelaide and Arthur, so utterly different
from the acti