“Very likely. You asked me to pray for you just now, you know. What’s on your mind, Peggy Rottengoose?” I had the old sinner to her feet by this time. Her face was a yellow, haggard thing to look at--shining like stained brass. Something in it seemed to convey to me that perhaps after all the angel of the storm had struck at her in passing. She looked at me morosely and fearfully. “What but ministering to Satan’s children?” she said. “You graceless old villain, I’ve a mind to pitch you into the race.” I made a clutch at her as I spoke, but she evaded me with a wriggle and a shrill screech. “I didn’t mean it! Let me go by!” “What have you got to repent of in the first place?” “I was stealing the pictur’ o’ Modred--there! No peace ha’ I hard since I done it!” I let the old liar pass, and she shuffled away, hugging herself and glancing round at me once or twice as if she still doubted the meaning of my threat. I paid no more attention to her, but returned to my father’s room. The old man lay on his back placid and unconcerned, but his eyes were open and he greeted me with a cheerful little nod. Darkness deepened in the room, and the white face on the pillow became a luminous spot set weirdly in the midst of it. I had not once till then, I think, admitted a single feeling of disloyalty toward my father to my heart. Now a little unaccountable stirring of impatience and resentment awoke in me. I was under some undefinable nervous influence, and was surely not true to myself in the passing of the mood. It seemed suddenly a monstrous thing to me that he, the prime author of all that evil destiny that had haunted our lives, should be fading peacefully toward the grave, while we must needs live on to outface and adjust the ugly heritage of responsibilities that were the fruits of his selfish policy of inaction. Such sudden swift reactions from a long routine of endurance are humanly inevitable. They may flame up at a word, a look, a shying thought--the spark of divinity glowing with indignation over intolerable injustice. Then the dull decorum of earth stamps it under again and we go on as before. During that spell of rebellion, my soul passed in review the incidents of a cruel visitation of a father’s sins upon his children. I saw the stunted minds meanly nurtured in an atmosphere of picturesque skepticism. I saw the natural outgrowth of this in a reckless indifference to individual responsibility. Following thereon came one by one the impulse to triumph by evil--the unchecked desire--the shameless deed--the road, the river and the two lonely graves. I rose to my feet and paced the room to and fro, casting a resentful glance now and again at the quiet figure on the bed. Driven to quick desperation I strode to the door, opened it and descended the stairs.