“It was my fault, boy,” said the father hastily. “I ought to have figured the thing out differently. But, you see, I had no knowledge of what you had gone through and of its effect upon you. I know better now. I thought that the harder you went into the work the better it would be for you. I made a mistake.”
“Well, you couldn't tell, Dad. How could you? But everything was so different when I came back. Mere kids were carrying on where we had been, and doing it well, too, by Jove, and we didn't seem to be needed.”
“Needed, boy?” The father's voice was thick.
“Yes, but I didn't see that then. Selfish, I fear. Then, you know, home was not the same—”
The older man choked back a groan and leaned hard against the mantel.
“I know, Dad, I can see now I was selfish—”
“Selfish? Don't say that, my lad. Selfish? After all you had gone through? No, I shall never apply that word to you, but you—you don't seem to realise—” The father hesitated a few moments, then, as if taking a plunge:
“You don't realise just how big a thing—how big an investment there is in that business down there—.” His hand swept toward the window through which could be seen the lights of that part of the town which clustered about the various mills and factories of which he was owner.
“I know there is a lot, Dad, but how much I don't know.”
“There's $250,000 in plant alone, boy, but there's more than money, a lot more than money—” Then, after a pause, as if to himself, “A lot more than money—there's brain sweat and heart agony and prayers and tears—and, yes, life, boy, your mother's life and mine. We worked and saved and prayed and planned—”