“It is queer,” admitted Don; “but I think it’ll come out before night. He may be waiting to jump on Renwood to-night when we go up to practice.”
“Oh, I’ll be there!” sang Leon, as he skipped off at a corner on his way home.
Arriving home, Don ran lightly up the stairs to his room, the door of which he found standing slightly ajar. When he entered, he was surprised and startled to see his father standing by a window with a crumpled sheet of writing-paper in his hand. Instantly the boy felt that some unusual thing had brought the doctor to that room just then, and he halted, his face turning somewhat pale.
The doctor, likewise pale, regarded his son with searching eyes, making Don feel that his very thoughts were bring scrutinized.
“My son,” said the physician, calmly, “how does it happen that I find this half-written letter of mine in your waste-basket? I am sure I did not place it there.”
It was some seconds before the abashed youth found his voice, which did not sound quite natural when he finally spoke.
“I—I don’t know, father,” he said. “Let me see. Oh, yes! Why, I went down to your desk for some writing-paper one evening, and that was with the sheets when I brought them up here. I thought it didn’t amount to anything, so I threw it into the waste-basket.”
The doctor still regarded his son steadfastly, causing the blood to mantle Don’s cheeks, driving away the pallor and making his face very red. He felt for the first time in his life that he was not believed by his father, and the shame and humiliation of that feeling burned like coals of fire within his swelling bosom. No greater punishment for his wrong-doing, deception and falsehoods could have been inflicted upon him than befell at that moment, when he realized that his father doubted his statement and had lost confidence in him. In those few moments he suffered more keenly than ever before in all his life.
The doctor stepped toward Don slowly, placed a hand gently on his shoulder, and, in a low voice, said:
“My son, I am very sorry.”