“The whole situation,” he returned, “is pitiful.”
“Oh,” moaned Miss Van Patten, “it is. We have no right to stop at anything which shall bring him relief.”
“We have no right to shirk our duty,” returned the aunt with conviction.
“Duty?” queried the girl. “Is it our duty to let father suffer?”
“It is our duty to bear our own burdens and not shift them upon strangers.”
“I see no burden whatever in the undertaking,” corrected Barnes.
“Why don’t you?” challenged the aunt.
That was a question. Why was he willing to leave the pleasant freedom of the open road for a task which could not be called in itself pleasurable? The question was even more involved than the shrewd aunt suspected, when the fact was taken into account that he was even willing to act the prodigal—a character for which he had a particular aversion. To his mind the only decent way for the prodigal to return was with the fatted calf over his own shoulders. He must return triumphant, even if repentant. Otherwise it behooved him to stay away in the far country he had chosen and take his medicine like a man. To be sure the present case justified itself, but even so he did not altogether like the flavor of it. Then why was this no burden? It was clearly simply a case of atmosphere. The house itself had something to do with it, the gold in the girl’s hair had something, so did the little old aunt herself with the pink in her crinkly cheeks. He turned from the aunt to the niece. Decidedly, he thought, she should be painted on ivory.
“Why don’t you?” repeated the aunt, pressing home her point.
He glanced out of the window. The West was donning her jewels; pearl, opal, and amethyst.