In the gray of the next morning Charlie Pickett came up the path to his old home. The door was unlocked. He opened it and entered. In the sitting-room, with his head resting on his hand, his face gray in the early morning light, he found his father. He crossed the room and stood before him.
“Father,” he said, “I lied to you yesterday. I was unjust and unfilial. I have no excuse to make except that I was moved by uncontrollable anger. I do not know that you ever said a word in the presence of my wife that could in any way hurt her feelings. I do not know that you ever caused her a single pain, a single regret, a single sorrow. I do know that you were more than kind to her, that you did for her everything that loving thought or willing hands could do, and that your grief at her death was scarcely less than my own. I owe you this apology. I make it now. For this offence I ask your forgiveness. May I have it?”
The old man looked up at him impassively.
“No.”
“But, father, it is the only lie I ever told you, and I am sorry for it from the bottom of my heart.”
“One lie is enough.”
“But I am going now. I may never see you again. It is terrible for father and son to be thus estranged. What can I do to redeem myself in your eyes?”
“Nothing.”
“May I come sometime to see you?”
“No.”