He did not hear his son's reply. It came suddenly to his mind that this boy of his was almost exactly the age that he had been when he had tried to argue his own case with the old Major. It rushed into his thoughts how hard it had been to approach the topic nearest his heart, and how cruelly it had all ended. He realized, as he often did these days, how boyish and immature he must have seemed to his father, and yet how tragically old he had felt to himself. He wondered if Beverly felt that way now. He began to realize that the boy was still talking, arguing and planning, although he had not heard. "Bev," he said, gently, using the abbreviation instinctively to make the boy feel the tenderness of his intent--"Bev, I don't intend to argue this thing with you at all." Beverly had misunderstood his father's long silence and abstraction. The remark confirmed his misconception. He arose, disappointed, and started for the door. Griffith reached out, caught him by the sleeve, and pulled him into a chair beside his own. "I want to tell you something, Bev. When I was about your age--maybe a little younger-- "I made a request of my father that it had cost me a sore trial to make up my mind to ask. He--well, he didn't take it kindly, and--and--and I left home in a huff; not exactly a huff, either; but, to tell the truth, we succeeded in hurting each other sorely. And there wasn't the least need of it. It took us both a long time to get over the hurt of it. I sometimes doubt if we ever did get really all over it. I tell you, Beverly, boy, it was a sad, sad blunder all around. It darkened and dampened my spirits for many a day, and I don't doubt it did his." Griffith was playing idly with a paper-knife on the table beside him, and there came a pause and a far-off look in his eyes. "Oh, father, don't fancy I feel that way--I--don't--I wouldn't think----" began Beverly, eagerly, with a suspicious quaver in his voice. To hide it, he arose suddenly. "Sit down, son," said Griffith, smiling at the boy and taking the hand that rested on the table. It was cold. He dropped the paper-knife and laid his other hand over his son's. "Beverly, you didn't understand me, I reckon"--he threw one arm about the boy's shoulders--"I reckon you didn't understand me. I meant to say this: I still think my father was wrong. Now, if I can help it, I don't want the time to ever come, that when you recall your first independent effort with me, you will think that of me. I've always intended to try to remember, when that time came, to put myself in your place, and recall my own early struggles--be nineteen again myself. We will all hate to have you go so far away. That will be the hardest part for mother and for all of us; but if you have, thought it all over seriously----" "I have, indeed, father--for months and months. It----" "Why, all there is to do is for me to look into the matter and get that stock for you, and see how we can make the change as easy as possible--as----"