rode. Meanwhile, I was thinking, would it be a good thing? . . . My boy, you are more than my son, aren't you: you're my friend?"
"Yes."
"All the time, I was thinking . . . of Marianne. I am fond of her, Addie."
"Yes, Father."
"I tried to imagine it . . . I know . . . that she is fond of me, Addie."
"Yes."
"I tried to picture it . . . And then, Addie . . . then I thought myself old. Tell me, I am old, don't you think?"
"You are not old, Father."
"No, perhaps not . . . Still, Addie, I don't know, I really don't know . . . Then, Addie, I thought . . ."
"Of what, Dad, of whom?"
"I went on riding, like a madman. That's how I think best. Then I thought of . . . you."
"Of me?"
"Yes, of you. . . . Tell me, my boy, if we did that . . . if everything was changed . . . wouldn't you be unhappy?"
"If it was for the happiness of both of you, no. Then I should not be unhappy."
"Yes, so you say. But you would have to be unhappy . . . inside. If you still love us both. I thought it all out till I was dog-tired. For I never
