"They think hard things of him in Reykjavik, though. They say he robbed his father of every penny when he went away, and never sent anything home toward the maintenance of his child."
"It needs no skill to wound the defenceless," said Anna, bridling up. "The father robbed himself to save his son, if you want to know the truth, and as for never sending anything home for the child the poor boy had nothing to send, for he was poor himself, sir."
"So you found that out, did you?"
"After he was dead we did--one of his father's English friends wrote to tell us so. And all the time he had been writing letters to me to say how busy he was and how well he was succeeding--just to keep up my heart and save me from fretting."
The mother's lingering fondness for her prodigal was rising in her eyes and breaking in her voice and she was trying to turn away, but he could not let her go.
"What a pity his father didn't live long enough to hear that! It would have softened his heart toward him, perhaps."
"It didn't need softening, sir--not at the end at all events."
"His father forgave him, did he?"
"He died thinking his son had become a great man and had justified all his hopes and atoned for everything. It was only a delusion, sir, but it made him very happy."
"Your son was a musician, wasn't he?"