"I want to tell you the rest. I came back from my tramp by the river
drive, and suddenly I saw Griswold on his horse trotting up the
bridle-path toward me. I drew the line at seeing any more men, and
Griswold is the worst of the lot for wanting to do things, so I turned
into a side-street and ran. I had an idea he had seen me, so when I
came to a little church with the doors open, in the first half-block, I
shot in. Being Lent, you know, there was service going on, and I dropped
quietly into a seat at the back, and it came to me in a minute, that I
was in fit shape to say my prayers, so--I said 'em. It quieted me a bit,
the old words of the service. They're fine English, of course, and I
think words get a hold on you when they're associated with every turn of
your life. So I felt a little less like a wild beast, by the time the
clergyman began his sermon. He was a pathetic old fellow, thin and
ascetic and sad, with a narrow forehead and a little white hair, and an
underfed look about him. The whole place seemed poor and badly kept. As
he walked across the chancel, he stumbled on a hole in the carpet. I
stared at him, and suddenly it struck me that he must be about your age,
and it was like a knife in me, father, to see him trip. No two men were
ever more of a contrast, but through that very fact he seemed to be
standing there as a living message from you. So when he opened his mouth
to give out his text I fell back as if he had struck me, for the words
he said were, 'I will arise and go to my father.'"

The boy's tones, in the press and rush of his little story, were
dramatic, swift, and when he brought out its climax, the older man,
though his tense muscles were still, drew a sudden breath, as if he,
too, had felt a blow. But he said nothing, and the eager young voice
went on.