Oliver Optic

Desk and Debit Oliver Optic

IN WHICH PHIL HAS A TALK WITH HIS FATHER, AND REVIEWS HIS PAST HISTORY. "I must go to Chicago, father," said I, one evening, after we had been discussing our domestic relations with more than usual earnestness. "Why go to Chicago, Philip? What put that idea into your head?" replied my father, with a kind of deprecatory smile. "I don't feel as though I could live any longer in this state of doubt and uncertainty." "Really, Philip, I don't think you need worry yourself to that extent." "I can't help it. I want to know whether my mother is alive or dead. She may have been in her grave for a year for aught we know." "Not so bad as that, Philip. I am sure if anything had happened to her, we should have heard of it," added my father, mildly; but I saw that he had more feeling on the subject than he chose to manifest. "It seems to me inhuman and unnatural to live in this way," I persisted, perhaps a little more impatiently than I ought to have spoken. "It is all my fault, my son," said my father, meekly. "I don't think so." "Don't compel me to review the bitter experience of the past. You know it all." "I don't mean to blame you, father." "Certainly it is not your mother's fault that an ocean rolls between her and me." "I am willing to allow that it is your fault, and mine too, in a sense different from what you meant, that our family is still separated." I perceived that my father was considerably affected by what I had said; and as he relapsed into silence, apparently to give vent to the emotions which disturbed him, I did not press the subject any further at that moment. But I felt all that I had said, and I thought something ought to be done. I was thoroughly in earnest, and I felt that it would be my fault if our little family continued to be separated for a much longer period.