“For some reason I never was able to tell him all this--as I am telling you. The words would not come. We had grown apart. And he seemed to think--God knows why!--he seemed to think I disliked him. I had Langmaid talk to him, and other men I trusted--tell him what an unparalleled opportunity he had to be of use in the world. Once I thought I had him started straight and then a woman came along--off the streets, or little better. He insisted on marrying her and wrecking his life, and when I got her out of the way, as any father would have done, he left me. He has never forgiven me. Most of the time I haven't even the satisfaction of knowing were he is--London, Paris, or New York. I try not to think of what he does. I ought to cut him off,--I can't do it--I can't do it, Hodder--he's my one weakness still. I'm afraid--he'd sink out of sight entirely, and it's the one hold I have left on him.” Eldon Parr paused, with a groan that betokened not only a poignant sorrow, but also something of relief--for the tortures of not being able to unburden himself had plainly become intolerable. He glanced up and met the compassionate eyes of the rector, who stood leaning against the mantel. “With Alison it was different,” he said. “I never understood her--even when she was a child--and I used to look at her and wonder that she could be my daughter. She was moody, intense, with a yearning for affection I've since sometimes thought--she could not express. I did not feel the need of affection in those days, so absorbed was I in building up,--so absorbed and driven, you might say. I suppose I must accept my punishment as just. But the child was always distant with me, and I always remember her in rebellion; a dark little thing with a quivering lip, hair awry, and eyes that flashed through her tears. She would take any amount of punishment rather than admit she had been in the wrong. I recall she had once a fox terrier that never left her, that fought all the dogs in the neighbourhood and destroyed the rugs and cushions in the house. I got rid of it one summer when she was at the sea, and I think she never forgave me. The first question she asked when she came home was for that dog--Mischief, his name was--for Mischief. I told her what I had done. It took more courage than I had thought. She went to her room, locked herself in, and stayed there, and we couldn't get her to come out for two days; she wouldn't even eat.