He worked hard at the routine of his office until noon. He did what seemed to him the most necessary part of it all with conscientious fidelity. But his mind, a good part of the time, was with the men in the shops. He could not escape the conviction that if a railroad company had the willingness to do so, it could make the surroundings of their men safer and happier without getting poorer work, or even losing any money by it.
When noon sounded he went home, resolved to do whatever lay in his power to make the men feel that they were regarded as something more than machines.
George was downstairs when his father came in, and looked at him with curiosity rather than with any feeling of shame for the scene of the night before. After lunch was over, Mr. Hardy called his son into the study for a little talk with him before going down to the funeral.
"I do not need to tell you, George," began his father quietly but with feeling, "that I felt the disgrace of your drunkenness last night very bitterly. You cannot know the feelings of your father and mother in that respect. But I did not call you in here to reproach you for your vices. I want to know what you intend to do in the face of the present conditions."
Mr. Hardy paused, then went on again: "I am perfectly aware, George, that you regard my dream as a fancy, and think I am probably out of my mind. Isn't that true?" Mr. Hardy looked George full in the face, and the young man stammered:
"Well—I—ah—yes—I—don't just understand——"
"At the same time," went on his father, "I realise that nothing but a conviction of reality could produce the change in me which you and all the rest of the family must acknowledge has taken place. And you must confess that I am acting far more rationally than I did before my dream occurred. It is not natural for a father to neglect his own children, and I have done it. It is not rational that he should spend his time and money and strength on himself so as to grow intensely selfish, and I have done that. My son, you may doubt me, but I am firmly convinced that I shall not be alive here after next Sunday. I am trying to live as I ought to live under those conditions. My son," Mr. Hardy spoke with a dignity and a certain impressiveness which George could not but feel, "I want you to do as you know you ought to do under the circumstances. When I am gone, your mother and the girls will look to you for advice and direction. You will probably have to leave college for a little while. We will talk that over this evening. But I want you to promise me that you will not touch another glass of liquor or handle another card as long as you live."
George laughed a little uneasily, and then lied outright: "I don't see the harm of a game once in a while just for fun. I don't play for stakes as some fellows do."
"George," said his father, looking at him steadily, "you have not told the truth. You were gambling only a few nights ago. It is useless for you to deny it. That is where the very liberal allowance I have given you has been squandered."
George turned deathly pale and sat with bowed head while his father went on almost sternly: "Consider your mother, George, whose heart almost broke when you came in last night. I don't ask you to consider me. I have not been to you what a father ought to be. But if you love your mother and sisters, and have any self-respect left, you will let drink and cards alone after this. In the sight of God, my dear boy, remember what He made you for. You are young. You have all of life before you. You can make a splendid record if God spares your life. I would gladly give all I possess to stand where you do to-day, and live my life over again. I can't do it. The past is irrevocable. But one can always repent. George, believe me, your mother would rather see you in your coffin than see you come home again as you did last night. We love you."