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he did not tell him that day. He merely persuaded himself that it was not necessary, that it would even be wrong to tell his son, his child, who was still so young, the past of their lives, that which he would hear of himself and know and understand when he was a year or two older. And on the following days also, hesitating, Van der Welcke did not tell him. But the gloomy meals continued, Constance’ fits of helplessness continued; and she once again exclaimed:

“Oh, tell him! Do tell him!”

And they both felt so unhappy, because they were losing their child more and more every day, that he determined to tell Addie. He hesitated until the last moment, wavering, struggling within himself, not knowing what would be right, what wrong, knowing only that he was suffering beyond endurance. Then, one evening, he looked up his child in the “turret-room:”

“Addie, shall I be in your way if I sit here?”

“No, Papa.”

The boy was doing his home-work. Van der Welcke sat down. He reflected that he would rather tell him some other day, when Addie was not working. The child worked on, silently, gloomily, grimly. And Van der Welcke suddenly exclaimed:

“Addie!”