upon the current of my mind. I flung open my father's door, and closed it
again after me, without seeing who was there or how he was engaged. The
full clearness of the daylight did not identify him as the lamp did at
night. He looked up at the sound of the door, with a glance of
apprehension; and rising suddenly, interrupting some one who was standing
speaking to him with much earnestness and even vehemence, came forward to
meet me. "I cannot be disturbed at present," he said quickly; "I am
busy." Then seeing the look in my face, which by this time he knew, he
too changed color. "Phil," he said, in a low, imperative voice, "wretched
boy, go away--go away; don't let a stranger see you--"

"I can't go away," I said. "It is impossible. You know why I have come. I
cannot, if I would. It is more powerful than I--"

"Go, sir," he said; "go at once; no more of this folly. I will not have
you in this room: Go-go!"

I made no answer. I don't know that I could have done so. There had
never been any struggle between us before; but I had no power to do
one thing or another. The tumult within me was in full career. I heard
indeed what he said, and was able to reply; but his words, too, were
like straws tossed upon the tremendous stream. I saw now with my
feverish eyes who the other person present was. It was a woman, dressed
also in mourning similar to the one in the hall; but this a middle-aged
woman, like a respectable servant. She had been crying, and in the
pause caused by this encounter between my father and myself, dried her
eyes with a handkerchief, which she rolled like a ball in her hand,
evidently in strong emotion. She turned and looked at me as my father
spoke to me, for a moment with a gleam of hope, then falling back into
her former attitude.