"No more than you, my boy, and yet you're bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh—it can't be helped——"
He paused and pointed to the revolver:
"Give it to me!"
The boy started to lift the cloth and the father caught his arm:
"But first—before you do," he faltered. "I want you to tell me now with your own lips that you forgive me for what I must do—and then I think, perhaps, I can—say it!"
Their eyes met in a long, tender, searching gaze:
"I forgive you," he softly murmured.
"Now give it to me!" the father firmly said, stepping back and lifting his form erect.
The boy felt for the table, fumbled at the cloth, caught the weapon and slowly lifted it toward his father's extended hand. He opened his eyes, caught the expression of agony in the drawn face, the fingers relaxed and the pistol fell to the floor. He threw himself blindly on his father, his arms about his neck:
"Oh, Dad, it's too hard! Wait—wait—just a moment!"