“You could? Well, that's interesting--coming from you, at least.” “It was this,” Dearing went on, now quite serious, as he stood facing Galt, swinging his satchel in his hand: “As I came in just now I saw about thirty children--little boys and girls--over on Lewis Weston's lawn. They were all rigged out in their Sunday clothes and playing games, just as you and I did on the same spot when we were kids. It was little Grover Weston's birthday, and his daddy, being our Congressman, the undersized 'four hundred' were doing honors to the occasion. Even from where I stood I could see the toys, wagons, tricycles, and hobby-horses which had been presented to the little Georgia lord, and he was strutting about thoroughly enjoying the limelight that was on him. That was _one_ side of the picture. The other side was this: Down at the lower end of our place stood a solitary little figure. Not one among them all could hold a candle to him in looks or brightness of mind. You know who I mean; it was the little chap you took a fancy to the other day when he jumped into your arms from that tree. There he stood, his bat and ball idle at his feet, watching every movement of the gay little crowd across the way. I couldn't know what his thoughts were, but, as I stood looking at him, I wondered what I should have thought at his age. Was his growing and supersensitive mind already struggling with the question of inequality? I remember that I, at his age, felt a slight keenly, and if _I_ did, with my many advantages as a child, what must he feel? There is an argument for you, Kenneth. The next time you want to prove the utter heartlessness and aimlessness of God and His universe, just paint that picture.” Galt made no response. His blood seemed to turn cold in his veins as the grimly accusing words fell from his friend's lips. “But that is not the way I'm going to let the story end, in my fancy, at least,” Dearing continued, after a pause. “Kenneth, old chap, I see a silver lining peeping out from beneath even that poor child's cloud. I see the hidden hand of God following the father who deserted his duty to flee to some far-off hiding-place. I see that man hungering for spiritual rest; I see his very crime humbling and sweetening his soul and causing him to long for what he has left behind him. I see the fortune that avarice is piling up in his father's coffers being turned to good account. In short, I see that boy and his beautiful child-mother, who never had a fault but that of blindly trusting, taken away somewhere to ultimate happiness.” “You think--you think--” Galt stammered, unable to formulate an adequate reply. “I think the man does not live who could have been loved and trusted by Dora Barry and ever forget her. The man does not live who could be the father of _such_ a child by _such_ a mother--such as she has grown to be since her great misfortune--and not fight for her and her child with his last breath.” CHAPTER VII