was still quite young. Still he understood that I was her son. . . . Then he gave me his hand and said, 'I am glad, Doctor, to have seen you. . . . Give my regards to your mother . . . the old man's regards . . . and to your father too.' Then I went away; and, when I called again in an hour to enquire, the butler told me . . . that he was dead. . . ."
Van der Welcke sat in his chair, motionless and bent, with his hands hanging between his knees. He stared in front of him and did not speak. The past, the times of bygone days rose tempestuously before his eyes. It was as though that which had once existed never perished, as though nothing could ever change in what had once begun. . . . Life slid on unbrokenly. . . . His eyes saw Rome, an old palace, a lofty room . . . Constance fleeing down a back stair, himself standing like a thief in the presence of the old man . . . the good old man, who had been like a father to him. . . . Now . . . now the old man was dead. . . . And Addie had been at his death-bed! And Van der Welcke's son was bringing the dying man's message, his last message, his forgiveness! . . .
Van der Welcke stared and continued to stare, motionless; and a sob welled up in his breast. His eyes, which were like a child's with their ever youthful glance, filled with great tears. Nevertheless, he controlled himself, remained calm; and all that he said, quite calmly, was:
"Addie, does Mamma . . . know?"
"No, Daddy. . . . I wanted to tell you first . . . and to bring you . . . the old man's message and . . ."
'Yes?"
"His forgiveness. . . ."
Van der Welcke's head drooped lower still; and
