He entered, leaning heavily on John. He sat down in the very seat, in the very room, where he had so harshly judged us—judged him.
Something, perhaps, of that bitterness rankled in the young man's spirit now, for he stopped on the threshold.
"Come in," said my father, looking up.
"If I am welcome; not otherwise."
"Thee art welcome."
He came in—I drew him in—and sat down with us. But his manner was irresolute, his fingers closed and unclosed nervously. My father, too, sat leaning his head on his two hands, not unmoved. I stole up to him, and thanked him softly for the welcome he had given.
"There is nothing to thank me for," said he, with something of his old hardness. "What I once did, was only justice—or I then believed so. What I have done, and am about to do, is still mere justice. John, how old art thee now?"
"Twenty."
"Then, for one year from this time I will take thee as my 'prentice, though thee knowest already nearly as much of the business as I do. At twenty-one thee wilt be able to set up for thyself, or I may take thee into partnership—we'll see. But"—and he looked at me, then sternly, nay, fiercely, into John's steadfast eyes—"remember, thee hast in some measure taken that lad's place. May God deal with thee as thou dealest with my son Phineas—my only son!"
"Amen!" was the solemn answer.