It was the custom in Doctor Dunn's household that, immediately after dinner, his youngest son would spend half an hour in the study with his father. It was a time for confidences. During this half hour father and son met as nearly as possible on equal terms, discussing, as friends might, the events of the day or the plans for the morrow, school work or athletics, the latest book or the newest joke; and sometimes the talk turned upon the reading at evening prayers. This night the story had been one of rare beauty and of absorbing interest, the story, viz., of that idyllic scene on the shore of Tiberias where the erring disciple was fully restored to his place in the ranks of the faithful, as he had been restored, some weeks before, to his place in the confidence of his Master.
"That was a fine story, Rob?" began Doctor Dunn.
"That it was," said Rob gravely. "It was fine for Peter to get back again."
"Just so," replied his father. "You see, when a man once turns his back on his best Friend, he is never right till he gets back again."
"Yes, I know," said Rob gravely. For a time he sat with a shadow of sadness and anxiety on his young face. "It is terrible!" he exclaimed.
"Terrible?" inquired the Doctor. "Oh, yes, you mean Peter's fall?
Yes, that was a terrible thing--to be untrue to our Master and faithless to our best Friend."
"But he did not mean to, Dad," said Rob quickly, as if springing to the fallen disciple's defence. "He forgot, just for a moment, and was awfully sorry afterwards."
"Yes, truly," said his father, "and that was the first step back."
For a few moments Rob remained silent, his face sad and troubled.
"Man! It must be terrible!" at length he said, more to himself than to his father. The Doctor looked closely at the little lad.
The eager, sensitive face, usually so radiant, was now clouded and sad.
"What is it, Rob? Is it something you can tell me?" asked his father in a tone of friendly kindness.
Rob moved closer to him. The father waited in silence. He knew better than to force an unwilling confidence. At length the lad, with an obvious effort at self-command, said:
"It is to-morrow, Daddy, that Cameron--that Mr. Cameron is going away."
"To-morrow? So it is. And you will be very sorry, Rob. But, of course, he will come back."
"Oh, Dad," cried Rob, coming quite close to his father, "it isn't that! It isn't that!"
His father waited. He did not understand his boy's trouble, and so he wisely refrained from uttering word that might hinder rather than help. At length, with a sudden effort, Rob asked in a low, hurried voice:
"Do you think, Dad, he has--got--back?"
"Got back?" said his father. "Oh, I see. Why, my boy? What do you know of it? Did you know there was a letter from a man named Potts, that completely clears your friend of all crime?"
"Is there?" asked the boy quickly. "Man! That is fine! But I always knew he could not do anything really bad--I mean, anything that the police could touch him for. But it is not that, Dad.
I have heard Jack say he used to be different when he came down first, and now sometimes he--" The lad's voice fell silent. He could not bring himself to accuse his hero of any evil. His father drew him close to his side.
"You mean that he has fallen into bad ways--drink, and things like that?"
The boy hung his head; he was keenly ashamed for his friend. After a few moments' silence he said:
"And he is going away to Canada to-morrow, and I wonder, Dad, if he has--got--back? It would be terrible-- Oh, Dad, all alone and away from--!"
The boy's voice sank to a whisper, and a rush of tears filled his eyes.
"I see what you mean, my boy. You mean it would be terrible for him to be in that far land, and away from that Friend we know and love best."
The lad looked at his father through his tears, and nodded his head, and for some moments there was silence between them. If the truth must be told, Doctor Dunn felt himself keenly rebuked by his little son's words. Amid the multitude of his responsibilities, the responsibility for his sons' best friend he had hardly realised.
"I am glad that you spoke of it, Rob; I am glad that you spoke of it. Something will be done. It is not, after all, in our hands.
Still, we must stand ready to help. Good-night, my boy. And remember, it is always good to hurry back to our best Friend, if ever we get away from Him."
The boy put his arms around his father's neck and kissed him good-night; then, kissing him again, he whispered: "Thank you, Daddy."
And from the relief in his tone the father recognised that upon him the lad had laid all the burden of his solicitude for his friend.
Later in the evening, when his elder son came home, the father called him in, and frankly gave him the substance of the conversation of the earlier part of the evening.
Jack laughed somewhat uneasily. "Oh, Rob is an awfully religious little beggar; painfully so, I think, sometimes--you know what I mean, Sir," he added, noticing the look on his father's face.
"I am not sure that I do, Jack," said his father, "but I want to tell you, that as far as I am concerned, I felt distinctly rebuked at the little chap's anxiety for his friend in a matter of such vital import. His is a truly religious little soul, as you say, but I wonder if his type is not more nearly like the normal than is ours. Certainly, if reality, simplicity, sincerity are the qualities of true religious feeling--and these, I believe, are the qualities emphasised by the Master Himself--then it may indeed be that the boy's type is nearer the ideal than ours."
At this point Mrs. Dunn entered the room.
"Anything private?" she enquired with a bright smile at her husband.
"Not at all! Come in!" said Doctor Dunn, and he proceeded to repeat the conversation with his younger son, and his own recent comment thereupon.
