Nathan locked his mother into the bedroom, first making certain there was nothing about the chamber with which she could “do anything rash.” Then he went back down the stairs. He was inclined to agree with an oft-expressed sentiment of his father’s. It was a “hell of a home.” “Where you going, Natie?” cried Edith. “Don’t leave me alone with her. I’m afraid, I say.” “She can’t get out, unless she jumps through a window, and I don’t aim to be here when Pa comes back.” “Where you going?” “I dunno. Just out.” Nathan started for the hallway. But he got no farther. He met his father—coming in. Johnathan made an arresting gesture. “Young man,” he announced hoarsely, “I want to see you.” The boy was startled by the strange quality of Johnathan’s voice. The father’s face was white and drawn. There were puffy circles beneath his eyes and almost no color in his lips. “Whatter you want?” demanded the boy sullenly. “It’s time that you and I had a talk, young fellow. You’re approaching man’s estate. It’s time that you and I had a talk.” V They went into the parlor and sat down in the dark. Nathan was first puzzled, then alarmed. As the time passed and his father sat silent, an ominous silhouette opposite in the dark, that alarm increased to panic. Finally Johnathan cleared his throat. “I just met Caleb Gridley up the street a pace,” he announced. “We had a talk—him and me. We talked about you—and your poetry.” “Mr. Gridley?” “Yes, Mr. Gridley! You’ve been coming along, Nathaniel. You’ve been coming along so fast I’ve hardly noticed. But to-night you’ve had a thing printed in the paper that’s brought me to my senses. You’re getting too big to thrash. So I’ve concluded to talk with you, I say. It’s time we got this poetry business straight. I’m responsible to God for your soul and this poetry business brings home how much. How old are you, Nathan?” “Seventeen,” the boy answered grimly. “Yes, you’re seventeen. And at the wild, foolish age of seventeen you’re starting out to ruin your life precisely as I started out to ruin mine. And did! Only I started at twenty-one instead of bally seventeen.” “Ruining my life? How am I ruining my life, by writing poetry?” “No! By going contrary to your father’s best judgment for your welfare and future. By trying to do something and be something which your father doesn’t approve of. At twenty-one I was in the same position toward my father—I admit it! My father knew what was best for me; he was older and therefore wiser. He wanted me to be a business man—to set up a shop with him. But I had hazy, half-baked ideas that I wanted to be a minister. So I went contrary to my father’s advice and his wiser judgment.” “You regretted wanting to be a minister?”