A very little thing now might kill him, and at the
thought of that possibility he jumped up from his bed and swore that
THAT catastrophe at least must be prevented. His father must live
and be happy and strong again, and he, Martin, must see to it.
That was his charge and his sacred duty above all else.
Strong in this thought he went down to his father's room. He knocked
on the door. There was no answer, and he went in. The room was in a
mess of untidiness. His father was walking up and down, staring in
front of him, talking to himself.
At the sound of the door he turned, saw Martin and smiled, the old
trusting smile of a child, that had been, during his time abroad,
Martin's clearest memory of him.
"Oh, is that you? Come in."
Martin came forward and his father put his arm round his neck as
though for support.
"I'm tired--horribly tired." Martin took him to the shabby broken
arm-chair and made him sit down. Himself sat in his old place on the
arm of the chair, his hand against his father's neck.
"Father, come away--just for a week--with me. We'll go right off
into the country to Glebeshire or somewhere, quite alone.
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