“I have tried to think so,” confessed the doctor, “but in my sober moments of reason I found it impossible. Bad company led him into bad ways, it is true; but I was not patient with him, and I did not talk to him in the right spirit when I discovered that he was associating with bad boys. I permitted my anger to govern me, and thus, instead of influencing him to do better, I aroused in him anger and resentment against me. When I did that, my power over him was gone, and I never recovered it. It is thus, I believe, that in many cases parents lose influence and power over their children. They give themselves over to anger in attempting to reprimand their sons or daughters for wrong-doing, and their unrestrained temper produces resentment and anger, instead of regret and resolution to do better, in the ones whom they reprimand. My son, guard your temper and keep it in subjection, for to one of your fiery and unreasoning disposition it is your worst enemy.”
“Mother,” murmured Don, “did—did she——”
“She recovered for the time, but the shock had shattered her health, and she was never herself again. Even the sight of her aroused Charlie, so that the manager of the asylum ceased, after a time, to permit her to visit him. At sight of me he had convulsions. My practice was ruined, and it became necessary for me to seek another field. Then, my son, we came here, where we have remained ever since. Your mother grew weaker and weaker day by day. I doctored her as best I could, seeking the advice and assistance of the most skilled physicians obtainable; but it was useless, for her ailment was not of the body, but of the mind. She forgave me everything, but I lost her, Don, and I can never forgive myself.”
Again the doctor turned his sad, handsome face away, and father and son sat in silence, the only sound being the steady, solemn ticking of the old-fashioned clock that stood outside in the hall. After some minutes, the boy ventured to ask:
“Is Charlie still crazy?”
“No,” answered the doctor; “it was less than a year after the death of your mother that a certain great surgeon operated upon him and restored him to reason. Oh, how much would I have given had Mary lived till that day!”
“Where is he now?”
“In California, whither he went immediately on regaining his reason and liberty. I offered him a home as long as he wished to remain with me, but he chose to go to California.
“This is all the story, my son, and, having completed it, I am not going to moralize. Think it over. I hope it may serve to open your eyes to the perils of keeping bad company, and I pray that it may teach you to guard your temper.”
The doctor arose and held out his hand, as one man offers his hand to another, upon which Don sprang forward impulsively, clasping it with both of his own. The boy longed to express his sympathy in words, but something choked him, and he gazed through a misty cloud at the sadly handsome face of his father, while the pressure of their hands alone spoke more directly to their hearts than aught words could have expressed.