“I should like to kiss you, my boy—for the last time,” faltered the old man, humbly.
“My dear old father!”
It was all that was heard save a muffled sob, as Luke strained the old man to his breast, and position—the present—all was forgotten, as father and son stood there feeling as if five-and-twenty years had dropped away.
“Now,” said Luke, as the old man, with a happy smile upon his face, resumed his chair, the younger half seating himself upon the writing-table before him. “Now then, father,” said Luke, merrily, “am I glad to see you?”
“Yes, yes, my boy, I know you are;” and the old man took one of the delicate white hands in his, and gazed round the room. “I like your new chambers, my boy. Much better than the old ones. The furniture’s very nice; but you never wrote to your poor old father for fifty or a hundred pounds to buy it,” he said, reproachfully.
“There was no need, father,” said Luke, smiling. “I am making a good deal of money now.”
“Are you though? I’m glad of it. You ought to: you’re so clever; but you never come down, my boy.”
Luke’s brow clouded.
“I haven’t the heart, father,” he said, after a pause. “Come and see me instead; and if I don’t write so often as I should, it is really because I spend so much time in study and hard work.”
“Yes, of course, my boy, so you must. But—but you haven’t asked me why I came up.”