“Leave my house!” shouted the Rev. Stanley Blewton to his son. Two women—they were the Prodigal’s mother and sister—wept and pleaded. But the man of God was inexorable.
“Silence!” he exclaimed. “And”—turning to his son—“never cross this threshold again.”
“Father!” cried the boy.
“Thief!” retorted the reverend gentleman.
The face of his progeny burnt red, his eyes flashed, and he clenched his fists. The women meanwhile redoubled their sobs.
“But, hold,” added Mr. Blewton, as his son turned to go. “You shall be treated beyond your deserts. Here are ten pounds. Use them discreetly. They are the last you will ever have from me.”
“Keep your money, sir,” answered Master Henry Blewton—he was but seventeen years of age, and inherited the hot temper of his parent., “Mother, good-bye. Maude, God bless you. I am innocent.”
He kissed his mother and sister. The flush of resentment had died from his face. He turned to his father, and extending his hand, said,—
“Wish me good-bye, sir. Time will set me right.”
But an ominous sneer played about the thin lips of the clergyman. He pointed to the door, and his last words to his son were,—