“I think I'd better, maybe,” acquiesced Lionel. “Well, be careful,” Galt warned him, as he turned on the two streams of water and tested the blending temperature. “I really can't unbutton this collar behind,” Lionel said, with a touch of manly shame over the confession. “My mother always does it. She has never let me learn. I am big enough, gracious knows!” “Wait, let me undress you!” the father said, as he hastily dried his hands. “I wish you would, if you'll be so kind,” Lionel said, in a tone of reliance, which somehow reached an hitherto untouched fount of feeling in the breast of his companion. As the child stood before him, Galt, with throbbing pulse and reverent fingers, found himself doing the duties of a mother to his offspring. The flowing necktie and collar were removed; next the blouse and underbody. Then a vision of inexplicable and awe-inspiring beauty greeted the senses of the beholder, as the symetrical form, a veritable poem in flesh and blood, stood bared to his sight. He laid the still unsoiled garments on a chair, and lifted the boy in his arms to put him into the water. The warm, smooth cheek touched his own; a tingling throb of paternity--of starving, yearning fatherhood--shot through him as he held the boy across his arms like a baby and lowered him slowly to the water. “Look out, I'll duck you!” he said, jestingly, and the boy replied with a ringing laugh which held no hint of fear. In the water the child lay with his face smilingly upturned. “Ugh!” he exclaimed, “it feels good. This tub is big enough to swim in--a little bit, anyway. Will you show me how to swim some day?” “Yes, my son--yes, Lionel, some day, perhaps.” “In _deep_ water--in a really-really stream that fish swim in?” “Yes, Lionel.” “Oh, that would be so nice! Couldn't we catch fish, too?” “I think so--yes, of course, some day, perhaps.” But would those delights, conceived for the first time to-day, ever be realized? Galt asked himself, as keen pangs from some unknown source darted through him. Sick unto death of the vapid adulation of narrow men and women, would he ever experience the transcendental joy of intimate and daily companionship with this human wonder, such as other fathers enjoyed with their sons? No, the question was already answered. The bliss--the queer, Heaven-tending bliss of the present moment--was merely stolen. Was it likely that any son at all would ever come to him--a son which he could father in the broadest, holiest sense? No; and he started and fell to quivering superstitiously. Even if he were married and another son was given to him in lawful wedlock, could he dare--in the face of Infinite Justice--dare to put _that_ child forward, acknowledge _that_ child as his own, while _deserting, ignoring, denying_ Lionel?