Junior’s father picked up the rest of the letters and, with the strangest sensations a father ever had, read them all. * * * * * Perhaps it was telepathy. Junior suddenly remembered that he had left the letters exposed upon the table. His father would go upstairs after the talk with Mr. Fielding, to disown him. He would find those incriminating letters. Then when they found his body his father would know that his son was not only a liar and a forger but a coward and a quitter. In all his life his father had never been afraid of anything. If his father were in his place what would he do? That saved him. He dumped out the stones and ran back to the room. He would face it. Phil was aware that a tall slender youth with a quick elastic stride had entered the room and had stopped abruptly by the door, staring at him. There were reasons why he preferred not to raise his face at present, but this boy’s figure was unrecognizably tall and strong, and Phil was in no mood to let a young stranger come in upon him now. “What do you want?” he asked gruffly, still seated still holding the letters. There was no answer. Junior had never seen a Father disown a son, but he guessed that was the way it was done. He saw the letters in his father’s hands. Certainly, this was being disowned. The boy took a step forward. “Well, anyway,” he said, maintaining a defiant dignity in his disgrace, “no one else has seen those letters, so you won’t be compromised, Father.” The boy was a great reader, and had often heard of compromising letters. Phil sprang up from his chair, dropped the letters and gazed into the fine sensitive face, a beautiful face, it seemed to him now, quivering, but held bravely up to meet his sentence like a soldier. Junior could now see that his father’s strong face was also quivering, but misunderstood the reason for his emotion. There was a silence while Phil gained control of his voice. Then he said, still gazing at the boy, “But how did you know I felt that way about you?” “What way?” “Those letters. I’ve read them. I wish to God I’d written them.” Junior, usually so quick, still could not get it right. “You mean, you’re going to forgive me for lying about you?” “Lying about me! Why, boy, you’ve told the truth about me. I didn’t know how. Can you forgive me for that?” Now Junior was getting it. His face was lighting up. “Why, Father,” he began, and faltered. “Why, Father--why, Father--you really like me!” Junior felt strong hands gripping his shoulders and once more the vivid recollection of the street boys and the big man who comforted him. “You know what one of those letters says, Junior--I’m just crazy about you.” “Oh, Father, why didn’t you ever tell me?” “Well, what’s the use of having a great writer in the family anyway!”