vindicate. He could afford to give them time to see that he
was absolutely right.

One of his favourite Scripture quotations was, "Wait on the Lord." He
had applied it to real estate and to people, with profitable results.

But to human persons the sensation of being waited for is not always
agreeable. Sometimes, especially with the young, it produces a vague
restlessness, a dumb resentment, which is increased by the fact that
one can hardly explain or justify it. Of this John Weightman was not
conscious. It lay beyond his horizon. He did not take it into account
in the plan of life which he made for himself and for his family as
the sharers and inheritors of his success.

"Father plays us," said Harold, in a moment of irritation, to his
mother, "like pieces in a game of chess."

"My dear," said that lady, whose faith in her husband was religious,
"you ought not to speak so impatiently. At least he wins the game. He
is one of the most respected men in New York. And he is very generous,
too."

"I wish he would be more generous in letting us be ourselves," said
the young man. "He always has something in view for us and expects to
move us up to it."

"But isn't it always for our benefit?" replied his mother. "Look what
a position we have. No one can say there is any taint on our money.
There are no rumours about your father. He has kept the laws of God
and of man. He has never made any mistakes."

Harold got up from his chair and poked the fire. Then he came back to
the ample, well-gowned, firm-looking lady, and sat beside her on the
sofa. He took her hand gently and looked at the two rings--a thin band
of gold, and a small solitaire diamond--which kept their place on her
third finger in modest dignity, as if not shamed, but rather
justified, by the splendour of the emerald which glittered beside
them.

"Mother," he said, "you have a wonderful hand, and father made no
mistake when he won you. But are you sure he has always been so
inerrant?"

"Harold," she exclaimed, a little stiffly, "what do you mean? His life
is an open book."

"Oh," he answered, "I don't mean anything bad, mother dear. I know the
governor's life is an open book--a ledger, if you like, kept in the
best book-keeping hand, and always ready for inspection--every page
correct, and showing a handsome balance. But isn't it a mistake not to
allow us to make our own mistakes, to learn for ourselves, to live our
own lives? Must we be always working