The hand on the boy's shoulder stirred a little. "You thought right,
Ted."

"That was one impression the clergyman's sermon made, and the other was
simply his beautiful goodness. It shone from him at every syllable,
uninspired and uninteresting as they were. You couldn't help knowing
that his soul was white as an angel's. Such sincerity, devotion, purity
as his couldn't be mistaken. As I realized it, it transfigured the whole
place. It made me feel that if that quality--just goodness--could so
glorify all the defects of his look and mind and manner, it must be
worth while, and I would like to have it. So I knew what was right in my
heart--I think you can always know what's right if you want to know--and
I just chucked my pride and my stubbornness into the street, and--and I
caught the 7:35 train."

The light of renunciation, the exhaustion of wrenching effort, the
trembling triumph of hard-won victory, were in the boy's face, and the
thought, as he looked at it, dear and familiar in every shadow, that he
had never seen spirit shine through clay more transparently. Never in
their lives had the two been as close, never had the son so unveiled his
soul before. And, as he had said, in all probability never would it be
again. To the depth where they stood words could not reach, and again
for minutes, only the friendly undertone of the crackling fire stirred
the silence of the great room. The sound brought steadiness to the two
who sat there, the old hand on the young shoulder yet. After a time, the
older man's low and strong tones, a little uneven, a little hard with
the effort to be commonplace, which is the first readjustment from deep
feeling, seemed to catch the music of the homely accompaniment of the
fire.