While Mills bore the marks of suffering and had plainly undergone a serious illness, his voice had something of its old resonance and his eyes were clear and alert. He spoke of Shep, with a poignant tenderness, but left no opening for sympathy. His grief was his own; not a thing to be exposed to another or traded upon. Bruce marveled at him. The man, even in his weakness, challenged admiration. The rain had begun to patter on the sill of an open window and Bruce went to close it. When he returned to the bed Mills asked for an additional pillow that he might sit up more comfortably, and Bruce adjusted it for him. He was silent for a moment; his fingers played with the edge of the coverlet; he appeared to be thinking intently. “There are things, Storrs,” he remarked presently, “that are not helped by discussion. That night I had you to dine with me we both played about a certain fact without meeting it. I am prepared to meet it now. You are my son. I don’t know that there’s anything further to be said about it.” “Nothing,” Bruce answered. “If you were not what you are I should never have said this to you. I was in love with your mother and she loved me. It was all wrong and the wrong was mine. And in various ways I have paid the penalty.” He passed his hand slowly over his eyes and went on. “It may be impertinent, but there’s one thing I’d like to ask. What moved you to establish yourself here?” “There was only one reason. My mother was the noblest woman that ever lived! She loved you till she died. She would never have told me of you but for a feeling that she wanted me to be near you--to help in case you were in need. That was all.” “That was all?” Mills repeated, and for the first time he betrayed emotion. He lay very still. Slowly his hand moved along the coverlet to the edge of the bed until Bruce took it in his own. “You and I have been blessed in our lives; we have known the love of a great woman. That was like her,” he ended softly; “that was Marian.” The nurse came in to see if he needed anything, and he dismissed her for the night. He went on talking in quiet, level tones--of his early years, of the changing world, Bruce encouraging him by an occasional question but heeding little what he said. If Mills had whined, begged forgiveness or offered reparation, Bruce would have hated him. But Mills was not an ordinary man. No ordinary man would have made the admission he had made, or, making it, would have implored silence, exacted promises.... “Millicent--you see her, I suppose?” Mills asked after a time. “Yes; I see her quite often.”