One morning I was walking back and forth in the grounds with my head gardener, considering where improvements could be best introduced, when my father, on his old ass, rode into the courtyard.
I hastened forward, and, after helping him to dismount, was about to go into the garden with him, as I believed he had come to enjoy the beauty of our flowers. But he preferred to enter the first room that offered, and when I ordered my man to bring refreshments he declined—he wished to speak to me without being disturbed.
Overcome by a feeling of uneasiness, and scenting danger ahead, I sat down on a low seat beside him.
"My son," he began, in a tone of deepest earnestness, "thy wife has hitherto borne thee but two daughters, and there is no prospect that she will present thee with a son. Now, it is said, and with much truth, that the man dies miserably for whom there is no son to offer the sacrifices proper to the dead. I don't blame thee, my son," he added hastily, perhaps observing that I became somewhat restless; and, although I was not aware how in this matter I could have deserved blame, I thanked him with becoming humility for his clemency, and kissed his hand.
"No, I must blame myself, because in choosing thy wife, I allowed myself to be dazzled in too great a degree by worldly considerations, having reference to family and
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