about my family, the periodical visits of Mr. Smith, the care taken to exclude me from all their conversations, all these things made me wonder, and then Carruthers asked me one day to show him a picture of my father.

It was about this time that a vague feeling first entered my head about my mother; I fancied there was some mystery attached to her, and I in no way desired that such a thing should be. The strange reticence every one showed when I endeavoured to ask questions about my family, the periodical visits of Mr. Smith, the care taken to exclude me from all their conversations, all these things made me wonder, and then Carruthers asked me one day to show him a picture of my father.

Picture of my father, picture of my father? I had never seen one; it struck me that this was extraordinary, almost as extraordinary as the fact that never before had I wished to see one. There had never been one that I could remember, no painting, drawing, not even a photograph, but I did not like to tell Carruthers that, so I made some excuse, and slipped away.

Picture of my father, picture of my father? I had never seen one; it struck me that this was extraordinary, almost as extraordinary as the fact that never before had I wished to see one.  There had never been one that I could remember, no painting, drawing, not even a photograph, but I did not like to tell Carruthers that, so I made some excuse, and slipped away.

The desire to know what my father looked like became very strong, mingled with a feeling almost of shame; he may have loved me, petted me, planned out my future, and yet I had never given him more than a passing thought. In fact, I had grown to look upon my stepfather as my real parent and certainly cared for him that way.

The desire to know what my father looked like became very strong, mingled with a feeling almost of shame; he may have loved me, petted me, planned out my future, and yet I had never given him more than a passing thought. In fact, I had grown to look upon my stepfather as my real parent and certainly cared for him that way.

When I slipped away from my chum, I got into a boat and pulled up the river to my favourite lounging place, and then I spent an hour or two, lying on my back, staring at the sky and vainly striving to explain what now I was convinced was a mystery. I recalled the early visits of Mr. Smith, when my mother used to cry; could it be that my father had committed some crime? Surely not, but why was he never mentioned, why were 

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