“Only a bird beating against the pane, attracted by the fire, perhaps.” “We do that all our lives long. The invisible barrier. Oh, it's time to go, Syl, when a man begins to moralise. The moral always comes at the end of the story. Sit down on the bed, my son. I want to talk to you.” Sylvester obeyed. An expression of pain crossed his face. The old man's undismayed serenity moved his admiration. He would have given worlds to have uttered the cry of grief and love that would have been possible an hour ago. “You are a brave man, father,” he forced himself to say. “No; a coward. A pitiable old coward. You received my letter this morning?” “Yes. It is all right.” “You found a cheque yesterday--thought it forged--stopped Ella's marriage?” “Yes, and brought her back with me.” “But you will believe that I wrote the cheque?” “If you wish me to,” said Sylvester. There was a silence broken only by the crackling of the fire and the sobbing of the wind outside among the bare trees. Matthew gazed at the patch of sky framed by the window--it was one of his little obstinacies to have the fullest daylight in his room--and watched the scudding clouds. Presently, without turning,-- “Syl,” he said. “Yes, father.” “Something is breaking my heart. It has been the dream of my life to leave you a little fortune to make you independent, but I have lost it all, nearly all.” “You must not be distressed at that,” replied Sylvester. “I am earning a good income and am putting by money. In twenty years I shall be a wealthy man.” Matthew turned a face of intense anxiety, and it was some seconds before he could speak in his feeble voice. “But Woodlands will have to go. It is heavily mortgaged,--a debt I owe to Usher. Forgive me, Syl; I tried so hard to keep it. You'll find Usher and Roderick in my will, you the residuary legatee; but there will be nothing. I will explain a little.” He paused, thinking of some explanation, a debt incurred to Usher long ago. But Sylvester, imagining the story to be the one of sickening shame he had just heard, sought to save the old man unnecessary pain. “Don't say anything. Usher has told me.” Matthew looked at him wide-eyed. “Usher told you?” “Yes.” “Everything?” “Yes.” “From the beginning?” “Yes. This morning.” “You were threatening Roderick with a prosecution?” “Yes. When I learned that he was--my brother, I instructed my solicitor to withdraw the charge.” “Merciful God, have pity on me!” murmured the old man, with closed eyes. The tremendous irony of existence crushed him. To save his son this knowledge, he had endured over thirty years of abject humiliation. The son by his own act had brought the knowledge upon himself. It is an awful thing when a strong man comes face to face with the futile result of all his strength. Presently he opened his eyes and looked wearily at Sylvester.