Theoldman’slipswereworkingunderhisstainedbeard。Heturnedtothelawyerwithtimiddeference:“Phelpsandtherestarecomin’backtosetupwithHarve，ain’tthey？“heasked。“Thank’ee，Jim，thank’ee。“Hebrushedthehairbackgentlyfromhisson’sforehead。“Hewasagoodboy，Jim；alwaysagoodboy。Hewasezgentleezachildandthekindestof’emall——onlywedidn’tnoneofuseveronderstandhim。“Thetearstrickledslowlydownhisbeardanddroppeduponthesculptor’scoat。
“Martin，Martin。Oh，Martin！comehere，“hiswifewailedfromthetopofthestairs。Theoldmanstartedtimorously:
“Yes，Annie，I’mcoming。“Heturnedaway，hesitatedstoodforamomentinmiserableindecision；thenhereachedbackandpattedthedeadman’shairsoftly，andstumbledfromtheroom。
“Pooroldman，Ididn’tthinkhehadanytearsleft。Seemsasifhiseyeswouldhavegonedrylongago。Athisagenothingcutsverydeep，“remarkedthelawyer。
SomethinginhistonemadeSteavensglanceup。Whilethemotherhadbeenintheroomtheyoungmanhadscarcelyseenanyoneelse；butnow，fromthemomenthefirstglancedintoJimLaird’sfloridfaceandbloodshoteyes，heknewthathehadfoundwhathehadbeenheartsickatnotfindingbefore——thefeeling，theunderstanding，thatmustexistinsomeone，evenhere。