Out by the gate, standing on the gravel-path wet with November rain and strewn with damp, fallen leaves, the General waited for him. The air had grown chill, and the sky was spreading a canopy for the night of gloomy gray clouds. The two men, without a word, fell into step, and walked down the street together. What was there to say? Horace, striding silently along with his teeth tight set, his head bowed and full of fierce confusion of thought, and his eyes angrily fixed on the nothing straight ahead, became, all at once, aware that his office-boy was approaching on the sidewalk, whistling dolefully to suit the weather, and carrying his hands in his pockets. “Where are you going, Robert?” the lawyer demanded, stopping the lad, and speaking with the aggressive abruptness of a man longing to affront all about him. “To Mrs. Minster’s,” answered the boy, wondering what was up, and confusedly taking his hands out of his pockets. “What for?” This second question was even more sharply put. “This letter from Mr. Tracy.” The boy took a letter from the inside of his coat, and then added: “I said Mrs. Minster, but the letter is for her daughter. I’m to give it to her herself.” “I’ll take charge of it myself,” said Horace, with swift decision, stretching out his hand. But another hand was reached forth also, and grasped the young man’s extended wrist with a vehement grip. “No, by God! you won’t!” swore the General, his face purpling with the rush of angry blood, and his little gray eyes flashing. “No, sir, you won’t!” he repeated; and then, bending a momentary glance upon the boy, he snapped out: “Well, you! don’t stand staring here! Go and do your errand as you were told!” The office-boy started with a run to obey his command, and did not slacken his pace until he had turned a corner. He had never encountered a real general in action before, and the experience impressed him. Father and son looked in silence into each other’s faces for an instant. Then the father said, with something between a curse and a groan: “My God! the girl was right! You _are_ a damned scoundrel!” “Well, however that may be,” replied Horace, frowning, “I’m not in the mood just now to take any cheek, least of all from you!” As the General stared at him with swelling rage in his fat face, and quivering, inarticulate lips, his son went on in a bitter voice, from between clinched teeth: “I owe this to you! to nobody else but you! Everything I did was done to lift you out of the gutter, to try and make a man of you again, to put you back into decent society--to have the name of Boyce something else once more besides a butt for bar-keepers and factory-girls. I had you around my neck like a mill-stone, and you’ve pulled me down. I hope you’re satisfied!”