hance.

"No," replied Hiram, and his voice sounded curt. He added, in an
undertone: "I wish I were."

"You're wrong there, Hiram," said Mrs. Whitney, catching the words not
intended for her, and misunderstanding them. "It's not a case for
severity."

Arthur smiled, and the look he gave his father was a bright indication of
the soundness of his heart. Severity! The idea was absurd in connection
with the most generous and indulgent of fathers. "You don't get his
meaning, Mrs. Whitney," said he. "I, too, wish he were angry. I'm afraid
I've made him sad. You know he's got old-fashioned views of many things,
and he can't believe I've not really disgraced him and myself."

"Do _you_ believe it?" inquired Hiram, with a look at him as sudden and
sharp as the ray of a search light.

"I _know_ it, father," replied Arthur earnestly. "Am I not right,
Mrs. Whitney?"

"Don't be such an old fogy, Hiram," said Mrs. Whitney. "You ought to be
thankful you've got a son like Arthur, who makes a splendid impression
everywhere. He's the only western man that's got into exclusive societies
at Harvard in years simply on his own merits, and he's a great favorite
in Boston and in New York."

"My children need no one to defend them to me," said Hiram, in what might
be called his quiet tone--the tone he had never in his life used without
drying up utterly the discussion that had provoked it. Many people had
noted the curious effect of that tone and had resolved to defy it at the
next opportunity, "just to see what the consequences would be." But when
the opportunity had come, their courage had always withered.

"You can't expect me to be like you, father. You wouldn't, want it," said
Arthur, after the pause. "I must be myself, must develop my own
individuality."

Ranger stopped and that stopped the others. Without looking at his son,
he said slowly: "I ain't disputing that, boy. It ain't the question."
There was tremendousness in his restrained energy and intensity as he
went on: "What I'm thinking about is whether I ought to keep on _helping_
you to 'develop' yourself, as you call it. That's what won't let me
rest." And he abruptly walked away.

Mrs. Whitney and Arthur stared after him. "I don't think he's quite well,
Artie," she said reassuringly. "Don't worry. He'll come round all right.
But you ought to be a little more diplomatic."

Arthur was silent. Diplomacy meant deceit, and he hadn't yet reached the
stage of polite and comf