My back hurt dreadfully, and mother put some ointment and soft cotton on
it.
It was late in the morning when I awoke, and heard mother and father
talking down-stairs. With great difficulty, I climbed out of bed and
dressed myself. When I went down, mother had a fire in the dining-room
stove, and father was sitting, or rather lying, with both arms stretched
out upon the table, his face buried between them. By him on a plate were
some slices of toast that mother had prepared, and a cup of coffee, which
had lost its steam without being touched.
I went over by the stove and stood looking at father. I had remained there
but a moment, my heart full of sympathy for him, and wondering if he were
ill, when he raised his head and looked at me. I had never before seen him
look so haggard and pale. As his eyes rested on me, the tears started down
my cheeks.
"Carter, my child," he said hoarsely, "I have done you a great wrong. Can
you forgive me?"
In an instant my arms were about his neck--I felt no stiffness nor soreness
now. He folded me to his breast, and cried, as I did. After a long time he
spoke again:--
"If I had only known--your mother has just told me.
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