“You are tired, my son.”
“Oh, no. Not very. I have been more so.” Peter Junior smiled a disarming smile as he looked in his father’s face. “I’ve tramped many a mile on two sound feet when they were so numb from sheer weariness that I could not feel them or know what they were doing. What did you want to say to me, father?”
“Well, my son, we have different opinions, as you know, regarding your future.”
“I know, indeed.”
“And a father’s counsel is not to be lightly disposed of.”
“I have no intention of doing so, father.”
“No, no. But wait. You have been loitering the day at Mr. Ballard’s? Yes.”
“I have nothing else to do, father,––and––” Peter Junior’s smile again came to the rescue. “It isn’t as though I were in doubtful company––I––there are worse places here in the village where I might––where idle men waste their time.”
“Ah, yes. But they are not for you––not for you, my son.” The Elder smiled in his turn, and lifted his brows, then drew them down and looked keenly at his son. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the high western window and fell on the older man’s face, bringing it into strong relief against the dark oak paneling behind him, and as Peter Junior looked on his father he received his second revelation that day. He had not known before what a strong, fine old face his father’s was, and for the second time he surprised himself, when he cried out:––