Hugo smiled. “Why—I didn’t need it, mother. And I thought it would make you and father happy.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps. It has done some good. I’ve sent four missionaries out in the field and I am thinking of sending two more. I had a new addition put on the church, for the drunkards and the fallen. And we put a bathroom in the house. Your father wanted two, but I wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Have you got a car?”

“Car? I couldn’t use one of those inventions of Satan. Your father made me hire this one to meet you. There’s Anna Blake’s house. She married that fellow she was flirting with when you went away. And there’s our house. It was painted last month.”

Now all the years had dropped away and Hugo was a child again, an adolescent again. The car stopped.

“You can go right up. He’s in the front room. I’ll get lunch.”

Hugo’s father was lying on the bed watching the door. A little wizened old man with a big head and thin yellow hands. Illness had made his eyes rheumy, but they lighted up when his son entered, and he half raised himself.

“Hello, father.”

“Hugo! You’ve come back.”

“Yes, father.”

“I’ve waited for you. Sit down here on the bed. Move me over a little. Now close the door. Is it cold out? I was afraid you might not get here. I was afraid you might get sick on the train. Old people are like that, Hugo.” He shaded his eyes. “You aren’t a very big man, son. Somehow I always remembered you as big. But—I suppose”—his voice thinned—“I suppose you don’t want to talk about yourself.”

“Anything you want to hear, father.”

“I can’t believe you came back.” He ruminated. “There were a thousand things I wanted to ask you, son—but they’ve all gone from my mind. I’m not so easy in your presence as I was when you were a little shaver.”

Hugo knew what those questions would be. Here, on his death-bed, his father was still a scientist. His soul flinched from giving its account. He saw suddenly that he could never tell his father the truth; pity, kindredship, kindness, moved him. “I know what you wanted to ask, father. Am I still strong?” It took courage to suggest that. But he was rewarded. The old man sighed ecstatically. “That’s it, Hugo, my son.”

“Then—father, I am. I grew constantly stronger when I left you. In college I was strong. At sea I was strong. In the war. First I wanted to be mighty in games and I was. Then I wanted to do services. And I did, because I could.”