There was a little pause. The fire was getting low. It fell together with a feeble, crumbling sound.
“Shall I put some coals on?” asked Jack.
A simple question—if you will. But it was asked by the son in such a tone of quiet, filial submission, that a whole volume could not contain all that it said to the old man's proud, unbending heart.
“Yes, my boy, do.”
And the last six years were wiped away like evil writing from a slate.
There was no explanation. These two men were not of those who explain themselves, and in the warmth of explanation say things which they do not fully mean. The opinions that each had held during the years they had left behind had perhaps been modified on both sides, but neither sought details of the modification. They knew each other now, and each respected the indomitable will of the other.
They inquired after each other's health. They spoke of events of a common interest. Trifles of everyday occurrence seemed to contain absorbing details. But it is the everyday occurrence that makes the life. It was the putting on of the coals that reconciled these two men.
“Let me see,” said John, “you gave up your rooms before you left England, did you not?”
“Yes.”
Jack drew forward his chair and put his feet out towards the fire. It was marvellous how thoroughly at home he seemed to be.