"I have," replied the old man, standing with his face turned from her. She went to him and, touching his arm, said: "But not in your old way—not as you would have told him good-bye before—before you were ill." "I am not ill," he said, without turning his eyes toward her. "I never was better in my life." "But, tell him good-bye, please." "I tell you I have!" he exclaimed, stamping upon the floor; and turning with his hand uplifted, he cried: "Can’t you see—no, you cannot," he broke off, his hand shaking, and slowly falling to his side. "No, you cannot see, must not see. I beg your pardon for speaking so impatiently, but I am worried, Rachel; worried, and—" "Yes, I know," she said, taking the arm which he had raised from under her gentle touch. "But, you must tell him good-bye." The Judge struggled against her, though not with violence; the struggle, indeed, was more against himself. She led him toward Howard, who stood looking on, sorrowfully. "Put your arm about him," she said to the Judge. "For me, please." "For you," he said, and suffered her to put his arm on Howard’s shoulder. She raised his other arm, and now he stood with both arms about the boy’s neck. "Good-bye, father," said Howard. For a moment the old man’s countenance was aglow with the light of love and sympathy; convulsively he pressed Howard to his bosom—but a horror seemed to seize him, the light of sympathy went out as if blown by a cold wind, and, stepping back, he said: "There. Go. Not another word. Why do you continue to stand there gazing at me? Rachel, can’t you take him away? I have told him good-bye to please you—now, why don’t you oblige me by taking him away?" "But, dear, have you no word for him?" "Word, yes. Good-bye." "No word of advice?" "Advice! Don’t mock me. Go away, please. Can’t you see—no, you cannot, and why should I expect it? Now go." "We are going," she said. "Yes, but—I beg your pardon—but why don’t you?" She took Howard’s arm and walked out, looking back as if she hoped that the Judge might repent and follow, but he did not; he resumed his walk up and down the room. Suddenly he turned. "Now, what are you doing, William?" The brother had entered and was turning over papers on the desk. "I am looking for a slip of paper I dropped out of my pocket-book." "You didn’t leave anything here." "That may be," said William, "but I don’t know whether I did or not till I find out. A man never knows—" "Some men never know," the Judge broke in, going over to the desk and taking a paper out of William’s hand. "Go away, please." William stepped back, shocking himself from the storage battery of his dignity. "Oh, I can go, if that’s what you want." "That’s what I want." "It is? All right. John, I’ll be hanged if I know what’s the matter with you." The Judge was paying no attention. He was listening to a cab driving off from the door. "I say, sir, I’ll be hanged if I know what’s the matter with you."