It was a portrait, on ivory, of a singularly sweet face, possessing the tender, unearthly purity of one of Lorenzo di Credi's Madonnas, executed when the original was very young, a few months, in fact, before Sylvester was born. “A very good likeness,” said Matthew. “I shall be glad to keep it,” replied the son, putting it into his pocket. “I thought you would,” assented the elder. “It will be a companion to my miniature of Constance,” said Sylvester. And then silence came again; for memories crowded into the minds of each that they knew not how to speak of. Yet each knew that the other was thinking of his dead wife and wished that he could burst the strange bonds of reserve that held him and speak out that which was in his heart. “It's a devil of a muddle, isn't it?” said Matthew at last. “What?” “The cosmos. And the more one tries to establish order, the worse confounded becomes the confusion. The high gods seem to have given it up as a bad job.” “That reminds me,” said Sylvester, with a laugh. “I found Billings to-day having a glorious drunk on champagne. For a man earning twenty-five shillings a week, with a large family to support and a wife half dying of pneumonia, I thought it rather strong.” Matthew rose from his chair, his brows bent and his eyes kindling with sudden anger. “The damned hound! What did you do with him?” “I took him outside so as not to disturb his wife and then I kicked him until he was sober,” replied Sylvester, grimly. “I wonder who could have sent the champagne.” “Some silly fool,” said Matthew, nursing his wrath. “Yet nearer to heaven than most of us,” said Sylvester, knocking the ash off his cigar. “Rubbish!” said Matthew. “Besides, silly fools don't go to heaven. There's no place for 'em.” “I don't think Billings will rob his wife again,” remarked Sylvester. “Well, you can send him up to me in the morning.” “I think he'd sooner have another kicking,” laughed Sylvester. A picture rose before him of the reprobate cringing before his father, wriggling at each sentence as at a whip lash, and going away with two more bottles of wine that would burn his dirty hands like hot bricks. He laughed, but Matthew thrust both hands in his pockets and stood with feet apart on the hearth-rug. “Did you ever hear of such a mean skunk?” “You will never fathom the depth of human meanness, father, if you live to be a hundred.” “I thank you for the compliment, Syl,” replied the old man, drily, “but I happen to think otherwise. May you never live to know it as I do.” “Mr. Usher, sir,” said the servant, suddenly throwing open the door. Matthew started, and glanced instinctively at his son. Sylvester, who had been struck by an unusual note of emotion in his father's voice, was looking at him curiously. So their eyes met in a mutual sensitive glance, and Matthew flushed slightly beneath his tanned and care-lined skin. “Confound Usher!” muttered Sylvester, irritably.