“It is a good sign,” said the other; “and so far of happy augury. Here, I hope, is soil that may be renewed and yield yet a plentiful crop of wholesome grain.”
He sat himself down, and, toying with a pencil, fixed his eyes steadily and gravely on the young man.
“I crave your permission,” he said gently, “to speak very plainly, very freely, and—within proper limits—without reserve.”
“Surely, sir; for should I not be dead by now? ’Tis a post-mortem examination. Out with your scalpel, and cut and dissect as you list.”
“It is a family matter and very private to your ear.”
“Mr. Creel, who so taciturn as a ghost? Even a lawyer may give his confidence to a shadow.”
“You please to jest. Will you be serious for once? What I have to say affects you nearly. I represent your dead father—am his agent, not in authority, but in loving-kindness.”
“I listen, I listen. Perhaps I am a little light-headed. I have thrown out all my ballast, remember.”
“You saw but little of the late Sir Robert?”
“I was eleven years old when he died. That was in the war of ’80. He fought under Clinton and lies in Charleston where he fell. He was always a soldier in my vague memory of him—saturnine, pre-occupied, with a rare smile for odd moments.”