A Little Book for Christmas | Page 4

the blinding power of a great sorrow, for the father of
the two sons was dead. He had died of a broken heart. Possessed of no
omniscience of mind or vision, he had been unable to foresee the long

delayed turning point in the career of his younger son and death came
too swiftly to enable them to meet again. So long as he had strength,
that father had stood, as it were, at the top of the hill looking down the
road watching and hoping.
And but the day before the tardy prodigal's return he had been laid
away with his own fathers in the God's acre around the village church
in the Pennsylvania hills. Therefore there was no fatted calf ready for
the disillusioned youth whose waywardness had killed his father. It will
be remembered that the original elder brother objected seriously to
fatted calves on such occasions. Indeed, the funeral baked meats would
coldly furnish forth a welcoming meal if any such were called for.
For all his waywardness, for all his self-will, the younger son had loved
his father well, and it was a terrible shock to him (having come to his
senses) to find that he had returned too late. And for all his hardness
and narrowness the eldest son also had loved his father well--strong
tribute to the quality of the dead parent--and when he found himself
bereft he naturally visited wrath upon the head of him who he believed
rightly was the cause of the untimely death of the old man.
As he sat in the study, if such it might be called, of the departed, before
the old-fashioned desk with its household and farm and business
accounts, which in their order and method and long use were eloquent
of his provident and farseeing father, his heart was hot within his breast.
Grief and resentment alike gnawed at his vitals. They had received
vivid reports, even in the little town in which they dwelt, of the wild
doings of the wanderer, but they had enjoyed no direct communication
with him. After a while even rumour ceased to busy itself with the
doings of the youth. He had dropped out of their lives utterly after he
passed over the hills and far away.
The father had failed slowly for a time, only to break suddenly and
swiftly in the end. And the hurried frantic search for the missing had
brought no results. Ironically the god of chance had led the young
man's repentant footsteps to the door too late.
"Where's father?" cried John Carstairs to the startled woman who stared

at him as if she had seen a ghost as, at his knock, she opened the door
which he had found locked, not against him, but the hour was late and
it was the usual nightly precaution:
"Your brother is in your father's study, sir," faltered the servant at last.
"Umph! Will," said the man, his face changing. "I'd rather see father
first."
"I think you had better see Mr. William, sir."
"What's the matter, Janet?" asked young Carstairs anxiously. "Is father
ill?"
"Yes, sir! indeed I think you had bettor see Mr. William at once, Mr.
John."
Strangely moved by the obvious agitation of the ancient servitor of the
house who had known him from childhood, John Carstairs hurried
down the long hall to the door of his father's study. Always a
scapegrace, generally in difficulties, full of mischief, he had
approached that door many times in fear of well merited punishment
which was sure to be meted out to him. And he came to it with the old
familiar apprehension that night, if from a different cause. He never
dreamed that his father was anything but ill. He must see his brother.
He stood in no little awe of that brother, who was his exact antithesis in
almost everything. They had not got along particularly well. If his
father had been inside the door he would have hesitated with his hand
on the knob. If his father had not been ill he would not have attempted
to face his brother. But his anxiety, which was increased by a sudden
foreboding, for Janet, the maid, had looked at him so strangely, moved
him to quick action. He threw the door open instantly. What he saw did
not reassure him. William was clad in funeral black. He wore a long
frock coat instead of the usual knockabout suit he affected on the farm.
His face was white and haggard. There was an instant interchange of
names.
"John!"

"William!"
And then--
"Is father ill?" burst out the younger.
"Janet said--"
"Dead!" interposed William harshly, all his indignation flaming into
speech and action as he confronted the cause of the disaster.
"Dead! Good God!"
"God had nothing to do