antly together. John took the time off from business,
and, with Binks trotting between them, the physically ill-mated and yet
mentally congenial pair took long walks together. And not since Dora's
departure had John felt so soothed and comforted. A spiritual force of
some sort seemed to radiate from the bent old man that for the time
almost regenerated his companion. John had discovered that Cavanaugh
loved him as a son and regarded him with an ardent mixture of pride and
ecstasy, as a son restored from death to life. Sometimes, in their
ascent of an incline in their strolls, the old man would quite
unconsciously catch hold of the arm of the younger, and in speaking he
often held John's hand in one of his and gently stroked it, as if
unconscious of what he was doing. At times, for no particular reason, he
would lower his voice into an almost confidential whisper. However, it
was on the last night of his stay, before his departure the following
morning, that John was permitted to see even more deeply into
Cavanaugh's heart. They were in Dora's room. The old man was undressing
for bed when suddenly he sat down, locked his toil-hardened fingers
between his knees, and lowered his shaggy head, as if buffeting an
unexpected wave of despair.

"I want to tell you something, John," he said, in a shaky voice. "And I
don't want you to forget it as long as life stays in you. I want you to
know that no days in all my existence have been as happy as these with
you. Not even my honeymoon, John, and that is saying a lot. I can't tell
you about it. When I try my tongue fails, my throat fills, and my eyes
stream with tears. You'll never regret being so good to me. God won't
give you cause to ever regret it. What is ahead of me seems mighty
short. I'll be dead, I guess, too soon for me to ever think about coming
to New York again, and I know how you feel about going down there, but
I'll take a sweet memory to my grave with me, John, and that is that
you, with all your up-to-date success and education, treated me as sweet
and gentle as a dutiful son would an old, unpolished, plain father that
he loved and respected. You are lonely and unhappy, and I see no way to
help you. That hurts. That hurts deep down in me! I hate to go away and
leave you like this, never to see you again. What I told you
about--about the little woman that was once your wife struck you a
deadly blow between the eyes. You thought you had counted on her
marrying again,