"Do not say that, father. Far be it from me to utter a reproach for anything you have done," I replied, disturbed by his words and his manner. "Let the past go--'let the dead bury their dead.'" "But the dead will not bury their dead, Philip. Your mother left me when she could no longer live with me. I do not blame her. It was my fault alone." "I only wish to let my mother know what has happened; that you are now a good and true man. I am sure, if she knew this, she would hasten to us without a single day's delay." "Of course she is under the influence of her father and her brothers. I do not even know where she is. If I did I would write to her. She will return one of these days, and then I will try to see her." "It may be years before she returns, father. They say it will be three years at least." "What can we do?" "I will go to Chicago." "What good can that possibly do? Will you force yourself into the presence of your grandfather, and then tell him that you are the son of his daughter? He would not believe you; he would kick you out of his house." "I shall not be rash or indiscreet." "But what will you do? What can you do?" demanded my father, earnestly. "I don't know; that will depend upon circumstances. In spite of my mishaps, fortune has favored me in the long run," I replied; but I had no plan whatever for my future action. "You do not know your grandfather." "I never even saw him." "He is not a bad man, by any means; on the contrary, he is upright and liberal. But he is eminently solid and practical. He is old-fashioned, full of dignity and self-respect. He believes that the world and all the affairs of mankind move in deep-worn ruts. He follows only legitimate and recognized channels. He rejects anything that is strange and out of the common course, and for that reason your story would find no favor with him. I doubt whether he ever read a novel in his life. If you should take all the public officers in St. Louis to Chicago with you, and let them swear in court that you were the long-lost son of Edward and Louise Farringford, he would not believe them. He may be convinced, but not by anything you can say or do." "Nevertheless, father, I wish to go to Chicago. I have seen but little of the world, and I have heard a great deal about that city." "I have no objection to your going to Chicago--not the least; but I hope you will not flatter yourself that you can produce an impression upon the mind of Mr. Collingsby, or his son Richard, who is as near like his father as one pea is like another pea. I should even like to have you travel for two or three months. It would do you good. You might go east--to New York and Philadelphia." "I don't care about going farther than Chicago." "Go, by all means; but don't get into a quarrel with your grandfather." "I'm not quarrelsome, father." "But Mr. Collingsby would be if you went to him with your story, though every word of it is true."