That evening in his library, from my seat by the table, I furtively watched my father's face. He sat in a huge chair against the wall, with a smaller chair in front for his feet, his vest unbuttoned, his short heavy body settled low as he grimly kept his eyes on his book. The strong overhead light which shone on his face showed me the deeper lines, all the wrinkles, the broad loose pouch of skin on the throat, the gray color, the pain, the weakness and the age in his motionless eyes. What was going on in there? Sometimes it would seem an hour before he turned another page. All afternoon he had been at her grave. He had given her no happy life. Was it of that he was thinking? I felt ashamed to be wondering, for he seemed so weak and old in his grief. Two years ago his hair had been gray, but he had still looked strong and hale. I could hardly feel now that he was the same man. I felt drawn to him now, I wished he would put down his book and talk and tell me everything about her. But what an embarrassing job it is to get acquainted with one's father. When Sue had left us after dinner, there had been a few brief remarks and then this long tense silence. I, too, pretended to be reading. "Your mother thought a lot of you, boy." He spoke at last so abruptly that I looked up at him with a start, and saw him watching me anxiously. "Yes, sir." I looked quickly down, and our eyes did not meet again after that. "It was her pluck that kept you in Paris--while she was dying." I choked: "I know." "You don't know--not how she wanted you back--you'll never know. I wanted to write you to come home." "I wish you had!" "She wouldn't hear of it!" "I see." Another silence. Why couldn't I think of something to say? "She kept every letter you wrote her. They're up there in her bureau drawer. She was always reading 'em--over and over. She thought a lot of your writing, boy--of what you would do when--when she was dead." The last came out almost fiercely. I waited a moment, got hold of myself. "Yes, sir," I brought out at last. "I hope you'll make it all worth while." "I will. I'll try. I'll do my best." I did not look up, for I could still feel his anxious eyes upon my face. "Do you want to go back to Paris?" "No, sir! I want to stay right here!" What was the matter with my fool voice? "Have you got any plans for your writing here? How are you going about it to start?" "Well, sir, to begin with--I've got some stuff I did abroad." "Stories?" "Not exactly----" "Poems?" My father's look was tragic. "No." And I tried to explain what I had been doing. But my attempts to tell him of my work in Paris were as forced and as pathetic as his efforts to attend. More and more halting grew our talk, and it ended in a silence that seemed to have no end. Then I went to the fireplace, knocked the ashes out of my pipe, refilled it and relit it. When I returned he was reading his book, and with deep relief I took up mine. That much of it was over.