“Yes, Papa?”
“Come here for a minute.”
The boy stood up and went to him.
“Tell me, why have you been so gloomy lately, my boy?”
“I’m not gloomy, Daddy.”
“You hardly speak to me or your mother. And it’s not like you, to sulk. Are you angry with us?”
“No, Daddy.”
“Aren’t you angry with us?”
“No, Daddy: what should I be angry for?”
“Then be as you used to be, Addie. When you’re not cheerful, everything in the house is so sad.”
The boy smiled.
“I’ll try, Daddy.”
“But why try? Just be it, be it!”
No, Van der Welcke would not, could not tell him.
“I’ll try, Daddy.”
And he moved to go back to his books.
“Addie!”
“What is it, Papa?”
“Come here, come to me.”
“I have my work to do.”
“Come along, I want you.”
The boy came.
“Come to me, here, on my lap. Perhaps it is the last time, Addie, that I shall take you on my knee. You are my little boy still; and presently, presently perhaps you will be a big son to me, with whom I
