"Are you my father?"
The man's hand dropped as if lifeless, but Chester picked it up again, holding it close.
"Tell me," he repeated, "are you my father?"
"Yes," came slowly and with effort, as tremblingly the father put his hands first on Chester's shoulders as he kneeled before him, then raised them to his head, asking, "Do—you—hate—me? Don't—" That seemed to be all he was able to articulate.
"No, no; I do not hate you; for are you not—are you not my father!"
"Yes."
The son put his arms around his father's neck and kissed him. The father patted contentedly the head of the young man, as a parent fondly caresses a child. They were in that position when Lucy tapped lightly on the door, opened it, and came in.