But this tempest of rage calmed him. After it he sat down like a man exhausted, and he wished to weep but would not. "It has been a calamitous morning," he whispered, "but what is ordered must be borne. If the lad would only come back! If he would only come back! But he will not—he will not—he will never come back. I must get myself together—there are other things, yes, there is Ada. As Donald was preparing to leave me, she was coming for my consolation."
Then he remembered that he had a session that night at the Church of the Disciples—a session regarding the expenses of the coming year, and not to be neglected. He dressed leisurely for the meeting, and then was sensibly hungry and wished his dinner was ready. When the little silver bell tinkled he needed no other call and, with a preoccupied air, took his place at the table. He could see that Mrs. Caird had been crying, and Marion was white and silent with a trace of indignation in her manner. But, when her father clasped her hand as he took his seat and smiled faintly, she returned his clasp and smile and looked at her aunt with an expression that seemed to plead for tolerance.
At the beginning of the meal there was little conversation, but when the family were alone, Mrs. Caird said, "I hope you are feeling better, Ian. What at all was the matter with you at the lunch hour?"
"I was not sick. I was very wretched, and could not eat."
"Donald, poor lad! I suppose?"
"Just so. Donald has treated me in a very ungrateful and disobedient manner. I know not how I can bear it."
"Forgive him."
"I have forgiven so often."
"That is the way. The best children are aye doing something wrong, forgive Donald as you go along. It is God's way with yourself, Ian."
"His behavior has destroyed my happiness."