I was silent. What could I say! The words which came from my heart had failed to touch him. He had buried even the memory of my mother. I remembered Aunt Gainor’s warnings as to his health, and set myself at once to hear and reply with gentleness.
He went on as if he knew my thought: “I am no longer the man I was. I am deserted by my son when I am in greatest need of him. Had it not pleased God to send me for my stay, in this my loneliness, thy Cousin Arthur, I should have been glad to rest from the labours of earth.”
“Arthur! My cousin!”
“I said so. He has become to me as a son. It is not easy for one brought up among dissolute men to turn away and seek righteousness, but he hath heard as thou didst never hear, nor wouldst. He hath given up dice and cards, and hath asked of me books such as Besse’s ‘Sufferings’ and George Fox’s ‘Testimony.’”
This was said so simply and in such honest faith that I could not resist to smile.
“I did not ask thee to believe me,” said my father, sharply; “and if because a man is spiritually reminded and hath stayed to consider his sin, it is for thee but cause of vain mirth, I will say no more. I have lost a son, and found one. I would it had been he whom I lost that is now found.”
I answered gravely, “Father, the man is a hypocrite. He saw me dying a prisoner in jail, starved and in rags. He left me to die.”
“I have heard of this. He saw some one about to die. He thought he was like thee.”
“But he heard my name.”
“That cannot be. He said it was not thee. He said it!”