“And have you never asked him what it was, dear mother? You who are such a tender nurse and so adored a wife must have moments when even his reserve would yield to such gentle importunities as yours.” “It would seem so, but I have never dared to broach the subject. When your father chooses to be silent, it is difficult for any one to question him.” “Yes, mother; and yet I must dare his displeasure to-day. I must know his mind about Polly.” “Yes, that is right, and Heaven’s blessing go with you. I shall be outside here in the hall. If you strike the bell once I will fetch in Polly; if you strike it twice, I will come in alone; if you do not strike it at all, I will remain where I am, praying God to give you patience to meet the disappointment of your life.” The man whose reticent nature had aroused this conversation was just waking from a fretful sleep when his son entered. He was a tall, spare man with an aristocratic air and a fine head, who was wont to walk the streets as if the whole town belonged to him, and who had been spoken of as “the Squire” from his earliest manhood. Now his proud head lay low, and his once self-satisfied countenance wore a look that caused a pang to strike the heart of his son, before the unrest visible in his whole figure could find vent in words. “What is it, father? You look distressed; cannot something be done to relieve you?” The man who had never been known to drop his eyes before anyone slowly turned his face to the wall. “There is no help,” he murmured; “my hour has come.” And he was silent. Clarke moved uneasily; he hardly knew what to do. It seemed cruel to disturb his father at this moment, and yet his conscience told him he would be wrong to delay a communication that would set him right in his own eyes. The father settled the matter by saying abruptly: “Sit down, I have something to say to you.” Clarke complied, drawing a chair close up to the bedside. He knew that one of his father’s peculiarities was a dislike to raising his voice. For a moment he waited, but the father seemed loath to speak. Clarke therefore remarked, after a certain time had passed: “Nothing you can say to me will fail of having my respectful attention. If I can do anything to relieve your cares—” The look which his father here turned upon him startled him from continuing. Never had he seen such an expression in those eyes before. “Can you go so far as to forgive?” the old man asked. “Forgive?” echoed Clarke, hardly believing his ears. “What is there I have to forgive in you? The benefits you have bestowed upon me, the education I have received and your fatherly care?” “Hush!” the half-lifted hand seemed to entreat and a shadow of the old commanding aspect revisited the ashy countenance before him. “You do not know all that has happened this last year. I have ruined you, Clarke, ruined your mother; and now I must die without having the opportunity of retrieving myself.”