d little,--that with which they were
charged for him set the night wind quivering. It was not simple music,
although it had in it a grand simplicity. At times it rose, vibrant with
inexpressible feeling, and fell again into gentler, yearning cadences
that wrung the soul with a longing that was world-old and world-wide,
that reached out towards the unattainable stare--and, reaching, became
immortal. Thus was the end of it, fainting as it drifted heavenward.

Then the window was closed.

Austen walked on; whither, he knew not. After a certain time of which he
had no cognizance he found himself under the glaring arc-light that hung
over Main Street before the Pelican Hotel, in front of what was known as
the ladies' entrance. He slipped in there, avoiding the crowded lobby
with its shifting groups and its haze of smoke,--plainly to be seen
behind the great plates of glass,--went upstairs, and gained room Number.
Seven unnoticed. Then, after the briefest moment of hesitation, he
knocked. A voice responded--the Honourable Hilary's. There was but one
light burning in the room, and Mr. Vane sat in his accustomed chair in
the corner, alone. He was not reading, nor was he drowsing, but his head
was dropped forward a little on his breast. He raised it slowly at his
son's entrance, and regarded Austen fixedly, though silently.

"You wanted to see me, Judge?" said Austen.

"Come at last, have you?" said Mr. Vane.

"I didn't intend to be late," said Austen.

"Seem to have a good deal of business on hand these days," the Honourable
Hilary remarked.

Austen took a step forward, and stopped. Mr. Vane was preparing a piece
of Honey Dew.

"If you would like to know what the business was, Judge, I am here to
tell you."

The Honourable Hilary grunted.

"I ain't good enough to be confided in, I guess," he said; "I wouldn't
understand motives from principle."

Austen looked at his father for a few moments in silence. To-night he
seemed at a greater distance than ever before, and more lonely than ever.
When Austen had entered the room and had seen him sitting with his head
bowed forward, the hostility of months of misunderstanding had fallen
away from the son, and he had longed to fly to him as he had as a child
after punishment. Differences in after life, alas, are not always to be
bridged thus.

"Judge," he said slowly, with an attempt to control his voice, wouldn't
it have been fairer to wait awhile, before you made a remark