“I suppose it’s idle work, picturing the future, dreaming of the great things we’re going to do,” answered Parmelee, soberly; “but—it’s hard not to.”
“No, no, don’t think that!” The visitor laid a hand for a moment on Parmelee’s shoulder, then darted a quick look of surprise at the place his fingers had touched. Parmelee saw it, and a wave of color dyed his face. But the other continued after a pause that was almost imperceptible. “Don’t think that, my boy. Life wouldn’t be half what it is without dreams. And who knows? Perhaps yours are destined to come true. I hope they will.”
“They never have,” said Parmelee, bitterly.
The older man smiled. “But there’s time yet.” He turned and walked slowly about the apartment, nodding his head now and then, viewing the dark rafters as he might have viewed old friends, and putting his head in the bedroom door, but declining Parmelee’s invitation to enter.
Reminiscences came to his mind, and he told them lightly, entertainingly. He stood for several moments in front of the empty fireplace, and sighed again as he turned away.
He moved toward where he had laid his hat and gloves. “I left word with my wife to tell my son to come here for me, but I don’t see him.” He picked up his hat and looked out into the street. “He took part in the tree exercises; he would have to change his clothes afterward, and that would take some time. I dare say if I walk up the street I shall meet him.”
Parmelee struggled in silence with his reserve; then he said:
“I—I wish you’d wait here for him, sir. You see, it’s just possible that you might miss him if you went.”
“But you’re certain I sha’n’t be in the way? Your guests will not arrive for a while?”