Oh, my son, my son! why did I not value more those days of the dear childish face, as I saw it then? Why did I not realize that the sterner days were coming when those sweet features were to be buffeted by sorrow and assailed by sin? I see him now, the little torn straw hat above the neglected locks—for children will run to seed when the mother is withdrawn—the plump, ruddy cheeks, all stained from the sand pile on the lawn, the dampness on the little forehead, the besmirched but becoming frock; and the eyes, wonderful eyes, so sober, so inquisitive, searching curiously for the unknown, breaking into shy laughter as they fell on me; the pudgy hand, quickly withdrawn from his father's; then the little frame, one half-bare leg dangling in the air, lifted high as Gordon held him up. I feel again the tremble in my fingers as I pulled back the shawl from about his sister's head, and see again the long look of wonder as my son gazed down upon the baby's face; I see the tiny throat swallow once or twice as his emotion gathered, and think of the vast realm in his heart that even his father and I cannot explore. Once again I see the refusing nod—his golden curls shaken the while—when I tell him to kiss his baby sister; his brooding eyes turned to mine, the outstretched arms, the rosy lips coming down to mine to be kissed; and I catch the mist in Gordon's eyes, my own swimming with tender joy, even as they are overflowing now so that I can hardly see to write.
The years flew swiftly by, unmarked by incident of note, but full of simple joy. Harold was well on his way in school—clever, like his father—and his sister had left the days of babyhood behind, when a new influence came into our quiet lives, a new Life into our little circle.
It was our daughter's birthday night, and Gordon had asked some friends to dinner. For, as I should have said before, he was simply crazy about Dorothy, which was the name we had bestowed upon our daughter—it had been my mother's. Nobody need tell me that a father's master passion is anything else than his first-born girl. Lots of men dissemble, I know, and profess to hold all their children in equal affection—but it's simply moonshine. If I'm a specialist in anything, it's children; and I have satisfied myself over and over again that a father, nineteen times out of twenty, is the bondsman of his eldest daughter. Dorothy looked like me; and I have a theory, which some cleverer brain will have to work out, that Gordon got her kind of mixed up with his sweetheart feelings, and loved the me that was in her, and the her that was in me. Anyhow, he was simply crazy about her, as I have said—and for years I thought it quite unfair how he made Harold play second fiddle for Her Majesty the Baby. And yet, strange though it sound, Harold was his very life—but we shall hear of this before my tale is told.
Well, as I have reported, Gordon must have a dinner party. It was to be in honour of Dorothy's original arrival, he said. So we invited some of the very nicest people in the church, some of the most clever and refined, and some of the unspoiled rich. (I believe the grand folks of St. Andrew's were coming to think more of Gordon every day.) And I got up the loveliest little dinner, with Harriet's aid of course, for she was as proud of Dorothy as we were ourselves.
The dinner was just in mid-career, and everything was going splendidly, when all of a sudden Harriet came to the dining-room door and beckoned to me. I could see by her face that it was something important.
"There's an old man here," she said as the door closed behind us, "and I thought I ought to call you—he says he's related."
"Related!" I echoed, "related to whom?"
"To Dr. Laird, ma'am," Harriet answered.
I knew there must be some mistake, since Gordon's relatives were all across the sea; besides, he had hardly any that I knew of, except his father.
I hurried out to the kitchen. As I entered, I saw the figure of a man well advanced in years; tall he was above the ordinary, but evidently stooped with toil. He rose from his chair as I approached, and bowed with a kind of native grace. Then he turned his face to mine and looked me over with one of the steadiest pairs of eyes that ever belonged to mortal. They were deeply set, keen and bright; high cheek bones on either side; ruddy complexion, significant of health; great wavy folds of snowy hair fell almost to his shoulders, those shoulders wrapped in a kind of grayish plaid; flowing beard, white as the locks above. His nose was prominent and strong, the mouth delicate, and firmly set, as though he had a mind of his own and knew how to use it. His clothes were coarse and plain, such as I fancied were worn by the peasants overseas; homespun stuff, I saw; and a flannel shirt, partly open, disclosed a sunburnt throat. He came forward and held out his hand, which I noticed was hard and rough, its clasp firm and strong; the other hand held a long staff, crooked at the top; a bundle, wrapped in a kind of shawl, lay at his feet.