"The skies might have opened and the Lord's finger pointed at me, and I
couldn't have felt more shocked. The sermon was mostly tommy-rot, you
know--platitudes. You could see that the man wasn't clever--had no
grasp--old-fashioned ideas--didn't seem to have read at all. There was
really nothing in it, and after a few sentences I didn't listen
particularly. But there were two things about it I shall never forget,
never, if I live to a hundred. First, all through, at every tone of his
voice, there was the thought that the brokenhearted look in the eyes of
this man, such a contrast to you in every way possible, might be the
very look in your eyes after a while, if I left you. I think I'm not
vain to know I make a lot of difference to you, father--considering we
two are all alone." There was a questioning inflection, but he smiled,
as if he knew.

"You make all the difference. You are the foundation of my life. All the
rest counts for nothing beside you." The father's voice was slow and
very quiet.

"That thought haunted me," went on the young man, a bit unsteadily, "and
the contrast of the old clergyman and you made it seem as if you were
there beside me. It sounds unreasonable, but it was so. I looked at him,
old, poor, unsuccessful, narrow-minded, with hardly even the dignity of
age, and I couldn't help seeing a vision of you, every year of your life
a glory to you, with your splendid mind, and splendid body, and all the
power and honor and luxury that seem a natural background to you. Proud
as I am of you, it seemed cruel, and then it came to my mind like a stab
that perhaps without me, your only son, all of that would--well, what
you said just now. Would count for nothing--that you would be
practically, some day, just a lonely and pathetic old man like that
other."