Benjamin Wright lay in his great bed, that had four mahogany posts
like four dark obelisks. ... He had not spoken distinctly since the
night of his seizure, though in about a fortnight he began to babble
something which nobody could understand. Simmons said he wanted his
birds, and brought two cages and hung them in the window, where the
roving, unhappy eyes could rest upon them. He mumbled fiercely when he
saw them, and Simmons cried out delightedly: "There now, he's better--
he's swearin' at me!" The first intelligible words he spoke were those
that had last passed his lips: "M-m-my f-f--," and from his melancholy
eyes a meagre tear slid into a wrinkle and was lost.

Dr. Lavendar, sitting beside him, put his old hand over the other old
hand, that lay with puffed fingers motionless on the coverlet. "Yes,
Benjamin, it was your fault, and mine, and Samuel's. We were all
responsible because we did not do our best for the boy. But remember,
his Heavenly Father will do His best."

"M-m-my f--" the stammering tongue began again, but the misery
lessened in the drawn face. Any denial of the fact he tried to state
would have maddened him. But Dr. Lavendar never denied facts; apart
from the question of right and wrong, he used to say it was not worth
while. He accepted old Mr. Wright's responsibility as, meekly, he had
accepted his own, but he saw in it an open door.