and he was rather pleased with himself for being able thus to
correlate the general past and the particular present. What he did not
suspect was the existence of circumstances which made the death of Mr
Shushions in the workhouse the most distressing tragedy that could by
any possibility have happened to Darius Clayhanger.

"Shall I put the gas out, or will you?" he asked, with kindly secret
superiority, unaware, with all his omniscience, that the being in front
of him was not a successful steam-printer and tyrannical father, but a
tiny ragged boy who could still taste the Bastille skilly and still see
his mother weeping round the knees of a powerful god named Shushions.

"I--I don't know," said Darius, with another sigh.

The next instant he sat down heavily on the stairs and began openly to
blubber. His hat fell off and rolled about undecidedly.

"By Jove!" said Edwin to himself, "I shall have to treat this man like a
blooming child!" He was rather startled, and interested. He picked up
the hat.

"Better not sit there," he advised. "Come into the dining-room a bit."

"What?" Darius asked feebly.

"Is he deaf?" Edwin thought, and half shouted: "Better not sit there.
It's chilly. Come into the dining-room a bit. Come on."

Darius held out a hand, with a gesture inexpressibly sad; and Edwin,
almost before he realised what he was doing, took it and assisted his
father to his feet and helped him to the twilit dining-room, where
Darius fell into a chair. Some bread and cheese had been laid for him
on a napkin, and there was a gleam of red in the grate. Edwin turned up
the gas, and Darius blinked. His coarse cheeks were all wet.

"Better have your overcoat off, hadn't you?"

Darius shook his head.

"Well, will you eat something?"

Darius shook his head again; then hid his face and violently sobbed.

Edwin was not equal to this situation. It alarmed him, and yet he did
not see why it should alarm him. He left the room very quietly, went
upstairs, and knocked at Maggie's door. He had to knock several times.

"Who's there?"

"I say, Mag!"

"What is it?"

"Open the door," he said.

"You can come in."

He opened the door, and within the darkness of the room he could vaguely
distinguish a white bed.

"Father's come. He's in a funny state."

"How?"

"Well, he's crying all over the place, and he won't eat, or do
anything!"

"All right," said Maggie--and a figure sat up in the bed. "Per