I turned toward the door, and there stood the father of Edward Hargrove. How well I remembered the broad, fine forehead, the steady, yet mild eyes, the firm lips, the elevated, superior bearing of the man I had once before seen in that place, and on a like errand. His form was slightly bent now; his hair was whiter; his eyes farther back in his head; his face thinner and marked with deeper lines; and there was in the whole expression of his face a touching sadness. Yet, superior to the marks of time and suffering, an unflinching resolution was visible in his countenance, that gave to it a dignity, and extorted involuntary respect. He stood still, after advancing a few paces, and then, his searching eyes having discovered his son, he said mildly, yet firmly, and with such a strength of parental love in his voice that resistance was scarcely possible: "Edward! Edward! Come, my son." "Don't go." The words were spoken in an undertone, and he who uttered them turned his face away from Mr. Hargrove, so that the old man could not see the motion of his lips. A little while before, he had spoken bravely against the father of Edward; now, he could not stand up in his presence. I looked at Edward. He did not move from where he was sitting, and yet I saw that to resist his father cost him no light struggle. "Edward." There was nothing imperative--nothing stern--nothing commanding in the father's voice; but its great, its almost irresistible power, lay in its expression of the father's belief that his son would instantly leave the place. And it was this power that prevailed. Edward arose, and, with eyes cast upon the floor, was moving away from his companions, when Frank Slade exclaimed: "Poor, weak fool!" It was a lightning flash of indignation, rather than a mere glance from the human eye, that Mr. Hargrove threw instantly upon Frank; while his fine form sprung up erect. He did not speak, but merely transfixed him with a look. Frank curled his lip impotently, as he tried to return the old man's withering glances. "Now look here!" said Simon Slade, in some wrath, "there's been just about enough of this. I'm getting tired of it. Why don't you keep Ned at home? Nobody wants him here." "Refuse to sell him liquor," returned Mr. Hargrove. "It's my trade to sell liquor," answered Slade, boldly. "I wish you had a more honorable calling," said Hargrove, almost mournfully. "If you insult my father, I'll strike you down!" exclaimed Frank Slade, starting up and assuming a threatening aspect. "I respect filial devotion, meet it where I will," calmly replied Mr. Hargrove,--"I only wish it had a better foundation in this case. I only wish the father had merited----"