“Tell me, Dorsch,” he said not two minutes after I arrived, “do you still keep up your church duties?” When I hesitated for a moment, uncertain what to say, he went on: “You ought to do that, you know. If you should die in a state of mortal sin——” “Yes, yes,” I interrupted, making up my mind to give him peace on this score if I never did another thing in this world, “I always go right along, once every month or six weeks.” “You really do that, do you?” he asked, eyeing me more in appeal than doubt, though judging by my obstinate past he must have doubted. “Yes,” I insisted, “sure. I always go regularly.” “I’m glad of that,” he went on hopefully. “I worry so. I think of you and the rest of the children so much. You’re a young man now and out in the world, and if you neglect your religious duties——” and he paused as if in a grave quandary. “When you’re out like that I know it’s hard to think of the church and your duties, but you shouldn’t neglect them——” “Oh, Lord!” I thought. “Now he’s off again! This is the same old story—religion, religion, religion!” “But I do go,” I insisted. “You mustn’t worry about me.” “I know,” he said, with a sudden catch in his voice, “but I can’t help it. You know how it is with the other children: they don’t always do right in that respect. Paul is away on the stage; I don’t know whether he goes to church any more. A—— and E—— are here, but they don’t come here much—I haven’t seen them in I don’t know how long—months——” I resolved to plead with E—— and A—— when I saw them. He was sitting in a big armchair facing a rear window, and now he took my hand again and held it. Soon I felt hot tears on it. “Pop,” I said, pulling his head against me and smoothing it, “you mustn’t cry. Things aren’t so bad as all that. The children are all right. We’ll probably be able to do better and more for you than we’ve ever done.” “I know, I know,” he said after a little while, overcoming his emotion, “but I’m getting so old, and I don’t sleep much any more—just an hour or two. I lie there and think. In the morning I get up at four sometimes and make my coffee. Then the days are so long.” I cried too. The long days ... the fading interests ... Mother gone and the family broken up.... “I know,” I said. “I haven’t acted just right—none of us have. I’ll write you from now on when I’m away, and send you some money once in a while. I’m going to get you a big overcoat for next winter. And now I want you to come over with me to the Fair. I’ve tickets, and you’ll enjoy it. I’m a press representative now, a traveling correspondent. I’ll show you everything.”