“Dear God,” said the child, “I don’t know what to do for papa and Corney. I am afraid they are both naughty. I would not say so to anybody but you, God, for papa is your little boy as I am his little boy, and you know all about it. I don’t know what it is, and I think Corney must be more to blame than my dear papa, but when he came home to-night he did not go to papa, and papa did not go to him. They never said How do you do, or Good night to the other—and Corney very ill too. Oh, God, you are our big papa! Please put it all right. Please, dear God, make papa and Corney good. You know they must love each other. I will not pray a word more, for I know you will do just what I want. Goodbye, God. I’m going to bed now—down there. I’ll come again soon.”

With that he slipped from his father’s knee, who did not dare to detain him, and walked from the room with slow, stately step.

By now the heart of the strong, hard man was swelling with the love that was at last coming awake. He could not weep, but felt dry, torturing sobs welling up from within him that seemed as if they would kill him. He rose to see the boy safely in bed.

In the corridor he breathed more freely. Through an old window, the bright moon, shining in peace with no one to see, cast a shadow in the shape of a cross, partly on the wall and partly on the floor. Severe Protestant as Gerald Raymount was, he found himself on his knees in the passage in front of the shadow—not praying, not doing anything he knew, but under some spiritual influence known only to God.

When the something had reached its height and the passion was over and his soul was clearing of the storm that had swept through it, he rose from his knees and went up to Mark’s room, two stories higher. The moonlight was there too, and the father saw the child’s white bed glimmering like a tomb.

He drew near, but through the gray darkness it was some seconds before he could rightly see the face of his boy. For a moment—I wonder how brief a moment is enough for a death-pang to feel eternal!—for an awful moment he felt as if he had lost him, that when he left the study he had been lifted straight to the bosom of the Father to whom he had prayed!

Slow through the dusk dawned his face. He had not then been taken bodily!—yet not the less was he gone! It was assuredly a dead face! But as he gazed in a fascination of fear, his eyes grew abler to distinguish, and he saw that he breathed.