Esther soon came in for her share of caresses; then Charlie inquired,
"Where's father?"
"In here," said Mrs. Ellis, leading the way to an adjoining room. "I don't
think he will know you--perhaps he may."
In one corner of the apartment, propped up in a large easy chair by a
number of pillows, sat poor Mr. Ellis, gazing vacantly about the room and
muttering to himself. His hair had grown quite white, and his form was
emaciated in the extreme; there was a broad scar across his forehead, and
his dull, lustreless eyes were deeply sunken in his head. He took no notice
of them as they approached, but continued muttering and looking at his
hands.
Charlie was almost petrified at the change wrought in his father. A few
months before he had left him in the prime of healthful manhood; now he was
bent and spectrelike, and old in appearance as if the frosts of eighty
winters had suddenly fallen on him. Mrs. Ellis laid her hand gently upon
his shoulder, and said, "Husband, here's Charlie." He made no reply, but
continued muttering and examining his mutilated hands. "It's Charlie," she
repeated.
"Oh, ay! nice little boy!" he replied, vacantly; "whose son is he?"
Mrs. Ellis's voice quivered as she reiterated, "It's Charlie--our
Charlie!--don't you know him?"
"Oh, yes! nice little boy--nice little boy.
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