Then Gray led the way to the sick-room and softly opened the door.
In a great canopied bed lay Colonel Pendleton with his face turned
toward the window, through which came the sun and air, the odors
and bird-songs of spring-time, and when that face turned, Jason
was shocked by its waste and whiteness and by the thinness of the
hand that was weakly thrust out to him. But the fire of the
brilliant eyes burned as ever; there was with him, prone in bed,
still the same demeanor of stately courtesy; and Jason felt his
heart melt and then fill as always with admiration for the man,
the gentleman, who unconsciously had played such a part in the
moulding of his own life, and as always with the recognition of
the unbridgable chasm between them--between even him and Gray. The
bitter resentment he had first felt against this chasm was gone
now, for now he understood and accepted. As men the three were
equal, but father and son had three generations the start of him.
He could see in them what he lacked himself, and what they were
without thought he could only consciously try to be--and he would
keep on trying. The sick man turned his face again to the window
and the morning air. When he turned again he was smiling faintly
and his voice was friendly and affectionate:

"Jason, I know why you are here. I'm not going to thank you, but
I--Gray"--he paused ever so little, and Jason sadly knew what it
meant--"will never forget it. I want you two boys to be friends as
long as you live. I'm sorry, but it looks as though you would both
have to give up yourselves to business--particularly sorry about
Gray, for that is my fault. For the good of our State I wish you
both were going to sit side by side at Frankfort, in Congress, and
the Senate, and fight it out"--he smiled whimsically--"some day