He was thoughtful and uneasy. "Of course, it's a blow," he said. "I do love the place."
"And us too, Dick, don't you—a little?"
"Oh, mother!" he said. "You have always been very good to me. Perhaps I've been rather a brute to you—taking things for granted, and not showing that I remembered. I do remember, you know. I had a good time as a child, and I owe a lot to you."
"And to father too," she said. "Think of all he did for you and how proud he has always been of you. He has made a mistake now—I think he has, and I tell you so—but, Dick, you are not going to punish him—and me and yourself—by destroying, for always, everything that keeps us united as a family?"
Again he moved uneasily. "Well, what on earth am I to do?" he asked. "I've told you what I feel about it all."
"Well, don't you feel exactly as your father does? Aren't you acting just as you blame him for acting? Don't you see how like you are to him in many ways?"
"The poor old governor!" said Dick. "I'm sorry for him in a way. But I hope I don't act with quite such disregard for common sense as he does."
"You act from pique. He thinks you are in the wrong, and won't give way, although he would like to. And you think he is in the wrong and you won't move towards him. There's something better even than common sense, Dick, which he shows and you don't. It is love."
"I don't think you can reasonably say he has shown me much of that lately, mother," said Dick.
"You keep away from him," she said. "If you were to come home you would see how he has been longing for you, and you would be sorry for him. Even if people wrong us, if they love us and we see it, it is not difficult to forgive them. If you would come home I think all your anger would disappear, however much you may think you are justified in it. I have never seen your father so unhappy and so troubled. For his sake, Dick, for the sake of all that he has done for you, come home to us. That was what I came here to ask of you."