He went on as if he knew my thought: “I am no longer the man I was. I am deserted by my son when I am in greatest need of him. Had it not pleased God to send me for my stay, in this my loneliness, thy Cousin Arthur, I should have been glad to rest from the labours of earth.” “Arthur! My cousin!” “I said so. He has become to me as a son. It is not easy for one brought up among dissolute men to turn away and seek righteousness, but he hath heard as thou didst never hear, nor wouldst. He hath given up dice and cards, and hath asked of me books such as Besse’s ‘Sufferings’ and George Fox’s ‘Testimony.’” This was said so simply and in such honest faith that I could not resist to smile. “I did not ask thee to believe me,” said my father, sharply; “and if because a man is spiritually reminded and hath stayed to consider his sin, it is for thee but cause of vain mirth, I will say no more. I have lost a son, and found one. I would it had been he whom I lost that is now found.” I answered gravely, “Father, the man is a hypocrite. He saw me dying a prisoner in jail, starved and in rags. He left me to die.” “I have heard of this. He saw some one about to die. He thought he was like thee.” “But he heard my name.” “That cannot be. He said it was not thee. He said it!” “He lied; and why should he have ever mentioned the matter to thee--as indeed he did to others--except for precaution’s sake, that if, as seemed unlike enough, I got well, he might have some excuse? It seems to me a weak and foolish action, but none the less wicked.” My father listened, but at times with a look of being puzzled. “I do not think I follow thy argument, Hugh,” he said, “neither does thy judgment of the business seem favoured by that which I know of thy cousin.” “Father, that man is my enemy. He hates me because--because Darthea is my friend, and but for her I should have rotted in the jail, with none to help me.” “Thy grandfather lay in Shrewsbury Gate House a year for a better cause, and as for thy deliverance. I heard of it later. It did seem to Arthur that the young woman had done more modestly to have asked his help than to have been so forward.” My father spoke with increase of the deliberateness at all times one of his peculiarities, which seemed to go well with the bigness of his build. This slowness in talk seemed now to be due in part to a slight trouble in finding the word he required. It gave me time to observe how involved was the action of his mind. The impression of his being indirect and less simple than of old was more marked as our talk went on than I can here convey by any possible record of what he said. I only succeeded in making him more obstinate in his belief, as was always the case when any opposed him. Yet I could not resist adding: “If, as you seem to think, Arthur is my friend, I would you could have seen his face when at that silly Mischianza he caught me in disguise.” “Did he not do his duty after thy creed and his?”