"I can endure anything on this earth but your hate, my boy! I can't endure that—I can't—even for a moment!"
His form shook with incontrollable grief as he lay with his face buried in his outstretched arms.
The boy struggled with conflicting pride and love, looked at the scrawled, tear-stained letter he still held in his hand and then at the bowed figure, hesitated a moment, and rushed to his father's side, knelt and slipped his arm around the trembling figure:
"It's all right, Dad! I'll not remember—a single tear from your eyes blots it all out!"
The father's hand felt blindly for the boy's and grasped it desperately:
"You won't remember a single harsh word that I've said?"
"No—no—it's all right," was the soothing answer, as he returned the pressure.
Norton looked at him long and tenderly:
"How you remind me of her to-night! The deep blue of your eyes, the trembling of your lips when moved, your little tricks of speech, the tear that quivers on your lash and never falls and the soul that's mirrored there"—he paused and stroked the boy's head—"and her hair, the beaten gold of honeycomb!"
His head sank and he was silent.