It was about four o'clock. The house held that quiet which reigns of a Sunday afternoon when the servants have left the kitchen for the cabin, when all work is done, and the feeling of Sunday rest takes possession of our minds. The winter sunshine on the fields seems full of rest; the brutes rest—even those that are not beasts of burden. The birds appear to know the day, and to make note of it in quieter twitter and slower flight.
David rose resolutely and started downstairs. As he entered his father's room, his mother was passing out She looked at her son with apprehension, as she closed the door. His father was sitting by a window, reading, as was his Sunday wont, the Bible. He had once written to David that his had always been a religious people; it was true. A grave, stern man—sternest, gravest on Sunday. When it was not possible to go to church, the greater to him the reason that the house itself should become churchlike in solemnity, out of respect to the day and the duty of self-examination. A man of many failings, but on this subject strong.
David sat down and waited for him to reach the end of the page or chapter. But his father read on with a slow perceptible movement of his lips.
"Father."
The gray head was turned slowly toward him in silent resentment of the interruption.
"I thought it would be better to come down and talk with you."
The eyes resought the page, the lips resumed their movements.
"I am sorry to interrupt you."
The eye still followed the inspired words, from left to right, left to right, left to right.
"Father, things ought not to go on in this way between us. I have been at home now for two months. I have waited, hoping that you would give me the chance to talk about it all. You have declined, and meantime I have simply been at work, as I used to be. But this must not be put off longer for several reasons. There are other things in my life now that I have to think of and care for." The tone in which David spoke these last words was unusual and significant.