Lost labour! when the circumambient gloom
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ut holds, if gods, gods careless of our doom! He laid the book down with a sigh. It seemed to fit his case. It was not until the next morning, however, that his anticipations wererealised, and the telegraph messenger stopped at his door. The telegram wassigned Eliphalet Hodges, and merely said, "Come at once. You are needed.""Needed"! What could they "need" of him? "Wanted" would have been abetter word,—"wanted" by the man who for sixteen years had forgottenthat he had a son. He had already decided that he would not go, and wasfor the moment sorry that he had stayed where the telegram could reachhim and stit his mind again into turmoil; but the struggle had alreadyrecommenced. Maybe his father was burdening his good old friends, and itwas they who "needed" him. Then it was his duty to go, but not for hisfather's sake. He would not even see his father. No, not that! He could notsee him. It ended by his getting his things together and taking the next train. He wasgoing, he told himself, to the relief of his guardian and his friend, and notbecause his father—his father!—wanted him. Did he deceive himself? Werethere not, at the bottom of it all, the natural promptings of so close arelationship which not even cruelty, neglect, and degradation could wholly 94
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