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“Good-bye for now,” said Julie, giving her brother another kiss. “We’re going to take Junior home, but we’ll be out at dad’s for dinner.”

And Stacey was in the tonneau of his father’s car, with only his father by his side. The car moved off.

Mr. Carroll drew a long breath. “Ouf!” he exclaimed. “So you’re back at last, son!” he said, after a moment.

“Back at last. Deuce of a long time, isn’t it?”

Mr. Carroll nodded gravely. “Longer than any one can imagine. I’ve missed you terribly, Stacey.”

The young man found himself wondering. Was it true? Was affection a real and vivid thing? He, Stacey, had had his life, such as it was, in these four years and a half. He had not missed his father, save in a mild way now and then. Well, his father, too, had had his own life. His days must have been taken up with business. He must have dined out frequently in the evenings or have had people to dinner. Had his thoughts truly clung to Stacey? Wasn’t it all half a convention? Between a child, helpless, appealing, undeveloped, and a father, protective, tender, apprehensive of a thousand infant dangers,—there, indeed, was a poignant relationship! Afterward?