"You've no right to say that. How can you tell? How can anybody tell? You touch me very nearly. I am a parent. I think--I seem to myself to have done much, very much, given constant thought for my children, yet to Theresa how do I appear? Careless of her, perhaps, selfish, obtuse. I do not know. There's a chasm opened before one--a chasm of ignorance and doubt. One treads so falsely, takes the wrong path, and to her the way to help her may be so plain. Human beings, all of us, yet we speak strange tongues. The Tower of Babel with us still--still. It may be that you misunderstand your father's language, Alexander." "He never speaks." "Ah, don't be wilful. Under that ill-temper I believe he suffers." "But why should I pity him? It's his fault." "That's why you should pity him. That's the worst suffering." Alexander shook his head. "I can't feel anything for him but hate. I hate the things he's touched; I hate to think I'm of his flesh." "That's wickedness." "Maybe. I feel all black inside. I'm burnt up like a cinder." He went to the door. "She's coming back. I'll make the tea." "Is she alone?" "Why, yes. He'll be miles away." The three found little to talk about that evening. Clara sat sewing, with her ears at stretch; Alexander had a book; and Edward Webb marvelled at the change in him a year had made. Last September he was a moody boy; this month he was a still more moody youth. The bones of his face had grown in prominence; the lines of the jaw and chin were fine and hard, boding trouble for those who brooked him; and the lips, still wanting in maturity, had settled themselves in rather sullen curves. Trouble stirred at the man's heart. He liked this boy: if he had had a son, he thought, he would have chosen such a one: the brow promised brains, the flare of his nostrils was sensitive and proud, and passion brooded in his eyes. There was power in the face, but there was danger too, until his reason should learn to control his will; and before that day came there might come another, bringing tragedy. He moved uneasily. The room to him was like a cup holding a poisonous draught which must be spilled before it could work harm. He cleared his throat, loudly, startlingly, as though to warn a would-be drinker; the two looked up, and Alexander, in that quick hunter's way of his, glanced round the room. "Nothing," said Edward Webb--"nothing." "It's time we went to bed," said Alexander. Last year he had been sent there. "Yes, yes. It's half-past ten." "You'll go, mother?" "Yes, I'll go. We'll leave the door unlocked and Jock at the stair-foot. He'll let no stranger past." "A dog's a grand thing," said Alexander. They laughed, and bade each other good-night.