There was always something compelling in Skelton’s glance, but the affectionate expression that gave his eyes a velvety softness, like a woman’s, was altogether new to Lewis Pryor. It exercised a certain magnetism over him, and he felt his own gaze fixed on Skelton’s by a power he could not understand. He lay there for some minutes under the fascination of Skelton’s eyes, with a half-sleepy curiosity; then he rolled off the sofa, and, still obeying a new and strange impulse, went up to him. As Lewis stood looking down upon the man that had never in all those years shown him the slightest mark of personal fondness, some emotion novel and inscrutable and overpoweringly sweet seemed to wake within his boyish heart. He felt instinctively the forging of a new bond, but it was all misty and uncertain to his mind. The waking in the strange room, instead of his own little cosy bedroom, with Bob Skinny shaking him and pleading with him “to git up, fur de Lord’s sake, Marse Lewis”--the rising ready dressed, the finding of Skelton looking at him with that expression of passionate tenderness, was like a dream to him. Skelton put out his hand--his impulse was to open his arms and strain the boy to his breast--and said: “Lewis, have you slept well?” “Yes, sir,” after a pause answered Lewis. “So have I,” said Skelton, “although I did not mean to sleep when I threw myself in this chair. But you should sleep well and peacefully, my boy. Tell me,” he continued, holding the boy’s hand in his strong yet gentle clasp, “tell me, have I, in all these years that we have lived together, have I ever spoken unkindly to you?” Lewis thought for a moment gravely, bringing his narrow black brows together. “No, sir, not that I remember,” he replied, after a moment. “It is not likely that I would,” said Skelton in a voice of the most thrilling sweetness, “for you are mine--you are more to me than the whole world. You are my son.” If Skelton expected Lewis to fall upon his neck when these words were uttered, he was cruelly disappointed. The boy drew himself up perfectly rigid. He put up his arm as if to ward off a blow, and turned deathly pale. Skelton, watching him with jealous affection, felt as if a knife had entered his heart when he saw the pallor, the distress, that quickly overcame Lewis. Neither spoke for some moments. Skelton, leaning forwards in his chair, his face pale and set, but his eyes burning, and his heart thumping like a nervous woman’s, watched the boy in a sort of agony of affection, waiting for the answering thrill that was to bring Lewis to his arms. But Lewis involuntarily drew farther off. A deep flush succeeded his first paleness; his face worked piteously, and suddenly he burst into a passion of tears.