“And so your deformity, such a little thing as it is, has worked all this—this misery?” mused the guest. “Dear, dear, such a pity, my boy, so unnecessary!”
“Unnecessary?” faltered Parmelee.
“Surely. You’ve been so mistaken when you have credited all kinds of unpleasant sentiments to people. They can’t care any the less for you because your back is not as straight as theirs. The fault has been yours, my boy; you haven’t given people a chance to get near to you. You’ve held them off at arm’s length all your life. Take my advice. After this go out among them; forget your suspicions, and see for yourself if I’m not right. When God put a hump between your shoulders he made up for it in some other way, you may depend upon that. And although I’ve known you but an hour, I think I know wherein the Lord has made it up to you. But I’m not going to tell you; it might make you vain.”
Parmelee raised his own eyes to the smiling ones across the table.
“I don’t think you need have any apprehensions on that score, sir,” he said, a trifle unsteadily.
“Well, perhaps not. I dare say you need a little more vanity. But think over what I’ve said, and if you can, act on it.”
“I will,” answered the other, earnestly. “And I’m—I’m very grateful. I don’t think I ever—looked at it quite that way, you see.”
“I’m certain you never have. And another thing; I wouldn’t be too quick to bring in a verdict in the case of that friend you’ve told me of. I think when you learn the truth you’ll find you’ve done him an injustice. And forgive me if I hurt you, my boy, but I think you’ve been more to blame than he has. It seems to me that you were the one to take the first step toward reconciliation. Well, I really must be going to hunt up my family. They’ll think I’m lost. I don’t know what’s happened to Philip, I’m sure.”
“Philip?” asked Parmelee, quickly.