“Lift me up, Barry,” he said.
Barry sat on the bed, put his arm around his father's shoulders, and lifted him up.
“That's better—hold me closer, Barry—You won't hurt me—Oh, it's good—to feel—your arms—strong arms—Barry.”
“You made them strong, dad,” said Barry, in a clear, steady voice.
The father nestled his head upon his son's shoulder.
“Barry,” he said in the low tone of one giving a confidence, “don't ever forget—to thank God—for these eighteen years—together—You saved me—from despair—eighteen years ago—when she went away—you know—and you have been—all the world to me—my son—”
“And you to me, dad,” said his son in the same steady tone.
“I've tried all my life—to make you know—how I love you—but somehow I couldn't—”
“But I knew, dad,” said Barry. “All my life I have known.”
“Really?” asked his father. “I—wonder—I don't think—you quite know—Ah—my boy—my boy—You don't—know—you—can't. Barry,” he said, “I think—I'm going out—I'm going—out—no, in—your word—my boy—in—eh—Barry?”