"It is not only a sensible, it is a wise philosophy. Let me apply it. Say that I have a child whom I love"--the memory of his Philip brought a touching sadness into his tone--"say that this blessing, which I have unhappily lost, is mine. If by any action of mine I can make that child happy, it is surely good and wise in me to do so, and adds to my enjoyment of life. Say that this child, having grown to manhood, with a man's intelligence and a man's hopes, has set his heart upon a certain thing--say, plainly, that he loves a girl who is both virtuous and good, whom he wishes to make his wife, and that I constitute it my business to thwart him--it is surely unwise in itself, if only in the fact that it brings discomfort to me, that it fills my days with uneasiness, and makes my home unhappy. Now, this is a selfish view, but it is one which occurs to me by way of illustration."
"But say, for the sake of argument," said Mr. Weston, somewhat uneasily, "only for the sake of argument, mind----"
"Very well, for the sake of argument."
"That this child's fancy was a foolish one, and unwise in every sense."
"I don't admit that; but we are only arguing. Pray proceed."
"And that you, his father, saw another and a better way of bringing happiness into his life."
"Who judges that my way is the better way?" demanded Mr. Rowe.
"Yourself."
Mr. Rowe shook his head, and taking a pair of spectacles from his pocket, asked Mr. Weston to use them. Mr. Weston put them on gladly, but they did not suit his sight; all was dim before him. He returned the spectacles to Mr. Rowe.
"I cannot see through them," he said.