Some reference to the future made by Willie, the younger, who favored his mother more than the outspoken John, gave Mason an opportunity to pave the way for the coming separation. "I don't want you two lads to make any great changes on my account," he said, slowly. "It is far from my intention to settle down here, and let all your friends become aware that you are supporting a ticket-of-leave father. Yes, I know. You are good boys, and it won't be any more pleasant for me to--to live away from you, than it would be for you--under--other conditions--to be separated from me. But--I am in earnest in this matter. I will stop here to-night just to feel that I am under the same roof as you. It is your roof, not mine. Long ago I lost the right to provide you with a shelter. To-morrow I go away. I have some work to do--a lot of work. It must be attended to at once. Of course, you will see me, often. We can meet in the evening--go out together--but live here--with you--I can't." His sons never knew the effort that this speech cost him. He spoke with such manifest hesitation that Willie, who quickly interpreted the less-pronounced signs of a man's thoughts, winked a warning at his brother. He said, with an optic signal: "Not a word now, John. Just leave things as they are." Under any ordinary conditions he would be right. He could never guess the nature of the chains that encircled his father, delivering him fettered to the torture, bound hand and foot, body and soul. At last they all retired to their rooms, the boys to whisper kindly plans for keeping their father a prisoner again in their hands; Mason to lie, open-eyed, dry-eyed, through the night, mourning for that which might not be. The rising sun dispelled the dark phantoms that flitted before his vision. He fell into a fitful slumber, disturbed by vivid dreams. Once he was on a storm-swept sea at night, on a sinking ship, a ship with a crew of dead men, and a dead captain at the helm. Driving onward through the raging waves, he could feel the vessel settling more surely, as she rushed into each yawning caldron. Suddenly, through the wreck of flying spindrift, he saw a smooth harbor, a sheltered basin, in which vessels rode in safety. There were houses beyond, with cheerful lights, and men and women were watching the doomed craft from the firm security of the land. But, strain his eyes as he would, he could see no entrance to that harbor; naught save furious seas breaking over relentless walls of granite. Even in his dream he was not afraid. He asked the captain, with an oath: "Is there no way in?" And the captain turned corpselike eyes toward him. It was Philip Anson. The dreamer uttered a wild beast's howl, and shrank away. Then he awoke to find Willie standing by his bedside with soothing words. "It is all right, father. You were disturbed in your sleep. Don't get up yet. It is only five o'clock." * * * * *