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What would I have been, dad, but for you?"
His father grunted, pulled hard at his pipe, coughed a bit, then looked
his son straight in the face, saying, "God knows what any of us owe to
our past." He fell into silence. His mind was far away, following his
heart to the palisaded plot of ground among the Foothills and the little
grave there in which he had covered from his sight her that had been the
inspiration to his best and finest things, and his defence against the
things low and base that had once hounded his soul, howling hard upon
his trail.
The son, knowing his mood, sat in silence with him, then rising suddenly
he sat himself on the arm of his father's chair, threw his arm around
his shoulder and said, "Dear old dad! Good old boy you are, too. Good
stuff! What would I have been but for you? A puny, puling, wretched
little crock, afraid of anything that could spit at me. Do you remember
the old gander? I was near my eternal damnation that day."
"But you won out, my boy," said his father in a croaking voice, putting
his arm round his son.


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