“I’m afraid he’s a very wicked boy, then,” piped the old man, “a very wicked boy. But are you glad to see me again, Luke?”
“Glad to see you, my dear old father? Why, yes, yes, you know I am. Come, come, come, or you’ll make me weak too.”
“Ye-ye—yes, my boy, it is weak,” quavered the old fellow, wiping his eyes hastily; “but I’m getting very old now, Luke. I was a middle-aged man when I married your dear mother, and I’m seventy-nine now, and not so strong as I was, and—and I got fancying as I came up that now you had grown to be such a great man you wouldn’t want to see such a shabby old fellow as I am at your chambers.”
“For shame, father!” cried Luke, reproachfully. “What cause have I ever given you for thinking that?”
“None at all, my boy, none at all. God bless you! You’re a good lad, and I’m very proud of you, Luke, very proud of you, and—and I am so glad to see you again. Luke, my boy,” he said, rising, and his tremulous old hands played caressingly about his son’s shoulders, “I’m a very old fellow now, and I dare say this is the last time I shall come to town.”
“Oh, no, no, no, father, you’ll make plenty of journeys up yet.”
“No, my boy, no,” said the old fellow, calmly; and he shook his head. “It can’t be; my next journey may be the long one, never to come back again, my boy.”
“Oh, father, come, come,” cried Luke, “don’t talk like that.”
“Why not, my boy?” said the old man, smiling; “it must come to that soon, and it never seems to trouble me now; but, Luke, my boy, would you—would you mind this once if—if I—if I—you were a little boy once, Luke, and I have always been so proud of you, and though you—you have grown to be such a great man, you seem only my boy still, and I should like to once more before I die.”
“Like to what, father?” cried the young man, smiling at his elder’s affectionate earnestness.