my mind.  I flung open my father’s door, and closed it again after me, without seeing who was there or how he was engaged.  The full clearness of the daylight did not identify him as the lamp did at night.  He looked up at the sound of the door, with a glance of apprehension; and rising suddenly, interrupting some one who was standing speaking to him with much earnestness and even vehemence, came forward to meet me.  “I cannot be disturbed at present,” he said quickly; “I am busy.”  Then seeing the look in my face, which by this time he knew, he too changed color.  “Phil,” he said, in a low, imperative voice, “wretched boy, go away—­go away; don’t let a stranger see you—­”

“I can’t go away,” I said.  “It is impossible.  You know why I have come.  I cannot, if I would.  It is more powerful than I—­”

“Go, sir,” he said; “go at once; no more of this folly.  I will not have you in this room:  Go-go!”

I made no answer.  I don’t know that I could have done so.  There had never been any struggle between us before; but I had no power to do one thing or another.  The tumult within me was in full career.  I heard indeed what he said, and was able to reply; but his words, too, were like straws tossed upon the tremendous stream.  I saw now with my feverish eyes who the other person present was.  It was a woman, dressed also in mourning similar to the one in the hall; but this a middle-aged woman, like a respectable servant.  She had been crying, and in the pause caused by this encounter between my father and myself, dried her eyes with a handkerchief, which she rolled like a ball in her hand, evidently in strong emotion.  She turned and looked at me as my father spoke to me, for a moment with a gleam of hope, then falling back into her former attitude.

My father returned to his seat.  He was much agitated too, though doing all that was possible to conceal it.  My inopportune arrival was evidently a great and unlooked-for vexation to him.  He gave me the only look of passionate displeasure I have ever had from him, as he sat down again; but he said nothing more.

“You must understand,” he said, addressing the woman, “that I have said my last words on this subject.  I don’t choose to enter into it again in the presence of my son, who is not well enough to be made a party to any discussion.  I am sorry that you should have had so much trouble in vain, but you were warned beforehand, and you have only yourself to blame.  I acknowledge no claim, and nothing you can say will change my resolution.  I must beg you to go away.  All this is very painful and quite useless.  I acknowledge no claim.”