“I never give over anything,” John answered, in a manner for him quite melodramatic, and beyond his usual key. “No. We always knew how stubborn you were. And now you are worse than ever.” “No fool like an old fool,” John Rosedew answered, smiling sweetly, yet with some regret. “Cradock, I am such a fool I shall let out everything.” “What do you mean?” asked Sir Cradock Nowell, leaning heavily on his staff, and setting his white face rigidly, yet with every line of it ready to melt; “John, I have heard strange rumours, or I have dreamed strange dreams. In the name of God, what is it, John? My son!—my only son——” He could say no more, but turned away, and bowed his head, and trembled. “Your only son, your innocent son, has been at my house these three days; and when you like, you can see him.” “When I like—ah, to be sure! I donʼt like many people. I am getting very old, John. And no one to come after me. It seems a pity, donʼt you think, and every one against me so?” “You can take your own part still, my friend. And you have to take your sonʼs part.” “Yes, to be sure, my sonʼs part. Perhaps he will come back some day. And I know he did not do it, now; and I was very hard to him—donʼt you think I was, John?—very hard to my poor Craddy, and he was so like his mother!” “But you will be very kind to him now; and he will be such a comfort to you, now he is come back again, and going away no more.” “I declare you make me shake, John. You do talk such nonsense. One would think you knew all about him,—more than his own father does. What have I done, to be kept like this in the dark, all in the dark? And you seem to think that I was hard to him.” “Cradock, all you have to do is just to say the word; just to say that you wish to see him, and your son will come and talk to you.” “Talk to me! Oh yes, I should like to talk to him—very much—I mean, of course, if he is at leisure.” He leaned on his stick, and tried to think, while John Rosedew hurried off; and of all his thoughts the foremost were, “What will Cradock my boy be like; and what shall I give him for dinner?” Cradock came up shyly, gently, looking at his father first, then waiting to be looked at. The old man fixed his eyes upon him, at first with some astonishment—for his taste in dress was somewhat outraged by the Broadway style—then, in spite of all the change, remembrance of his son returned, and love, and sense of ownership. Last of all, auctorial pride in the young manʼs width of shoulder, blended with soft recollections of the time he dandled him. “Why, Cradock! It is my poor son Cradock! What a size you are grown, my boy, my boy!” “Oh, father, I am sure you want me. Only try me once again. I am not at all a radical.” “Crad, you never could be. I knew you must come round at last to my way of thinking. When you had seen the world, Crad; when you had seen the world a bit, as your father did before you.”