Perhaps the old man had another reason, not yet clearly analyzed.  The fine house he had built on the sand-hills sometimes seemed lonely and bare.  He often found himself trying to reconstruct, from the grave features of Charles, the little boy whom he but dimly remembered in the past, and of whom lately he had been thinking a great deal.  He believed this to be a sign of impending old age and childishness; but coming, one day, in his formal drawing-room, upon a child of one of the servants, who had strayed therein, he would have taken him in his arms, but the child fled from before his grizzled face.  So that it seemed eminently proper to invite a number of people to his house, and, from the array of San Francisco maidenhood, to select a daughter-in-law.  And then there would be a child—­a boy, whom he could “rare up” from the beginning, and—­love—­as he did not love Charles.

We were all at the party.  The Smiths, Joneses, Browns, and Robinsons also came, in that fine flow of animal spirits, unchecked by any respect for the entertainer, which most of us are apt to find so fascinating.  The proceedings would have been somewhat riotous, but for the social position of the actors.  In fact, Mr. Bracy Tibbets, having naturally a fine appreciation of a humorous situation, but further impelled by the bright eyes of the Jones girls, conducted himself so remarkably as to attract the serious regard of Mr. Charles Thompson, who approached him, saying quietly:  “You look ill, Mr. Tibbets; let me conduct you to your carriage.  Resist, you hound, and I’ll throw you through that window.  This way, please; the room is close and distressing.”  It is hardly necessary to say that but a part of this speech was audible to the company, and that the rest was not divulged by Mr. Tibbets, who afterward regretted the sudden illness which kept him from witnessing a certain amusing incident, which the fastest Miss Jones characterized as the “richest part of the blow-out,” and which I hasten to record.

It was at supper.  It was evident that Mr. Thompson had overlooked much lawlessness in the conduct of the younger people, in his abstract contemplation of some impending event.  When the cloth was removed, he rose to his feet, and grimly tapped upon the table.  A titter, that broke out among the Jones girls, became epidemic on one side of the board.  Charles Thompson, from the foot of the table, looked up in tender perplexity.  “He’s going to sing a Doxology,” “He’s going to pray,” “Silence for a speech,” ran round the room.

“It’s one year to-day, Christian brothers and sisters,” said Mr. Thompson, with grim deliberation,—­“one year to-day since my son came home from eating of wine-husks and spending of his substance on harlots.” (The tittering suddenly ceased.) “Look at him now.  Char-les Thompson, stand up.” (Charles Thompson stood up.) “One year ago to-day,—­and look at him now.”

He was certainly a handsome prodigal, standing there in his cheerful evening-dress,—­a repentant prodigal, with sad, obedient eyes turned upon the harsh and unsympathetic glance of his father.  The youngest Miss Smith, from the pure depths of her foolish little heart, moved unconsciously toward him.