in wait for him, with their emptiness and silence, he went down-stairs with the bundle he had made, and turned into his library.  He had some thought of looking at the collections for his history, but, after pulling open one of the drawers in which they were stored, he pushed it to again, and sank listlessly into his leather-covered swivel-chair, which stood in its place before the wide writing-table, and seemed to have had him in it before he sat down.  The table was bare, except for the books and documents which he had sent home from time to time during the winter, and which Richard or his wife had neatly arranged there without breaking their wraps.  He let fall his bundle at his feet, and sat staring at the ranks of books against the wall, mechanically relating them to the different epochs of the past in which he or his wife or his children had been interested in them, and aching with tender pain.  He had always supposed himself a happy and strong and successful man, but what a dreary ruin his life had fallen into!  Was it to be finally so helpless and powerless (for with all the defences about him that a man can have, he felt himself fatally vulnerable) that he had fought so many years?  Why, at his age, should he be going into exile, away from everything that could make his days bright and sweet?  Why could not he come back there, where he was now more solitary than he could be anywhere else on earth, and reanimate the dead body of his home with his old life?  He knew why, in an immediate sort, but his quest was for the cause behind the cause.  What had he done, or left undone?  He had tried to be a just man, and fulfil all his duties both to his family and to his neighbors; he had wished to be kind, and not to harm any one; he reflected how, as he had grown older, the dread of doing any unkindness had grown upon him, and how he had tried not to be proud, but to walk meekly and humbly.  Why should he be punished as he was, stricken in a place so sacred that the effort to defend himself had seemed a kind of sacrilege?  He could not make it out, and he was not aware of the tears of self-pity that stole slowly down his face, though from time to time he wiped them away.

He heard steps in the hall without, advancing and pausing, which must be those of his son coming back for him, and with these advances and pauses giving him notice of his approach; but he did not move, and at first he did not look up when the steps arrived at the threshold of the room where he sat.  When he lifted his eyes at last he saw Bittridge lounging in the door-way, with one shoulder supported against the door-jamb, his hands in his pockets and his hat pushed well back on his forehead.  In an instant all Kenton’s humility and soft repining were gone.  “Well, what is it?” he called.

“Oh,” said Bittridge, coming forward.  He laughed and explained, “Didn’t know if you recognized me.”

“I recognized you,” said Kenton, fiercely.  “What is it you want?”