"This is a beautiful country," said Chester, looking out of the window. "I do not blame people who have money, desiring to live here." Lucy came to the window also, and they stood looking out on the rain-washed green. The father lay still in his chair, and presently he went to sleep. Chester and Lucy then retired to a corner, and carried on their conversation in low tones. Faint noises from other parts of the house came to them. From without, only the occasional shrill whistle of a locomotive disturbed the silence. The fire burned low in the grate. Suddenly, the father awoke with a start. "I tell you he is my son," he said aloud. "I am his father, and I ought to father him--my heart goes out--my son--" "What is it, father?" cried Lucy, running to him, and putting her arm around his shoulders. The father looked about, fully awakened. "I was only dreaming," he explained. "Did I talk in my sleep?" Just then Uncle Gilbert came in. He announced that tomorrow he would of necessity have to leave for Liverpool. It would be a short trip only; he would be back in two or three days, during which all of them should continue to make themselves comfortable. "George, here, is getting along famously," he declared. "A few more days of absolute rest, and you'll be all right, eh, brother?" "I think so." Aunt Sarah now announced luncheon, and they all filed out of the room. That evening the two brothers were alone. "I want to talk to you," the visitor had said; and his brother was willing that he should. Evidently, something weighed heavily on his mind, some imaginary trouble, brought on by his weakened physical condition. "Now, what is it, brother," said Gilbert as they sat comfortably in their room. "You know that in my younger days I had a little trouble"--began the minister, now speaking quite freely. "I don't recall what you mean." "When I was studying for the ministry--a woman, you--" "O, yes; I remember; but what of it? That's past and forgotten long ago." "Past, but not forgotten. I have tried to forget, the Lord knows, by long years of service in the ministry. I hope the Lord has forgiven--but I forgotten, Oh, no." "Look here, brother, you are over-sensitive just now because of your physical condition. You have nothing to worry over. That little youthful indiscretion--" "But there was a child, Gilbert, a boy." "Well, what of it?" "That was my boy. I am his father. What has become of him? Where is he now? Flesh of my flesh, is he handicapped by the stigma I placed upon him? Is he, perchance, groveling in the gutter, because I cast him off--had no thought or care for him--" "Now, look here--"