“There is something wrong with that boy,” he said to himself. “I wish I knew what it was.”
He set his house in order, moving heavily as if a sudden weight of years had fallen upon his shoulders, and took his way slowly down the street.
“I wonder what it is,” he mused, refusing to give form to a horrible thought that hovered like a spectre about the windows of his soul.
The first glance at his son's face at the time of the evening meal made his heart sing within him.
“He's all right again! He's all right!” he said to himself jubilantly.
“Hello, dad,” cried Barry, as his father entered the room. “Supper's just ready. How do you feel, eh?”
“Better, my boy—first rate, I mean. I'm properly hungry. You're rested, I can see.”
“I'm all right, dad! I'm all right!” cried Barry, in his old cheery way. “Dad, I want to apologise to you. I wasn't myself to-day, but now I'm all right again. Dad, I've joined up. I'm a soldier now,” he said with a smile on his face, but with anxious eyes turned on his father.
“Joined up!” echoed his father. “Barry, you have enlisted! Thank God, my boy. I feared—I thought—No, damned if I did!” he added, with such an unusual burst of passion that Barry could only gaze at him with astonishment.
“Forgive me, my boy,” he said, coming forward with outstretched hand. “For a moment I confess I thought—” Again he paused, apparently unable to continue.