In Search of a Son

by William S. Walsh

"I don't understand what you mean?"

"Roger, you oblige me to tread on delicate ground,—to ask you a painful question."

"Speak."

"Well, my dear friend, the change which we have noticed in you for some time is not my fault, is it? Or does it come from the surroundings in which you find yourself placed?"

"I don't understand."

"I ask if your grief—without your knowing it, perhaps—may not have been revived by the happiness which reigns around you? Perhaps the presence of these children, who nevertheless love you already almost as much as they do me, awakes in your heart a terrible remembrance and cruel regrets?"

"No, no," cried Monsieur Roger; "that is not true. But why do you ask me such questions?"

"Because, my dear friend, you are mentally ill, and I wish to cure you."

"Why, no, I am not. I am not ill either mentally or physically, I swear."

"Don't swear," said Monsieur Dalize; "and do me the kindness to hide yourself for some moments behind this clump of trees. I have witnesses who will convince you that I still have good eyes."