On the table was a very large photograph of a smiling child--with his eyes, his face.

He caught the chair-arm, and stood looking at it a little wildly.

Then he laughed a strange laugh, and the tears leaped to his eyes.

He caught the picture in his hands, and kissed it,--very foolishly, men not fathers might think,--and read the name beneath, Richard Joseph Armour; and again, beneath that, the date of birth.
He then put it back on the table and sat looking at it-looking, and forgetting, and remembering.
Presently, the door opened, and some one entered.

It was Marion.