The Reader's Kind Approbation "In ancient times, sirs," began the stranger, with his gaze upon the
hurrying waters of the brook, "when a man had committed some great
sin he hid himself from the world, and lashed himself with cruel
stripes, he walked barefoot upon sharp flints and afflicted himself
with grievous pains and penalties, glorying in the blood of his
atonement, and wasting himself and his remaining years in woeful
solitude, seeking, thereby, to reclaim his soul from the wrath
to come. But, as for me, I walk the highways preaching always
forgiveness and forgetfulness of self, and if men grow angry at my
teaching and misuse me, the pain of wounds, the hardships, the
fatigue, I endure them all with a glad and cheerful mind, seeking
thereby to work out my redemption and atonement, for I was a very
selfish man." Here the stranger paused, and his face seemed more
lined and worn, and his white hair whiter, as he stared down into
the running waters of the brook.
"Sirs," he continued, speaking with bent head, "I once had a daughter,
and I loved her dearly, but my name was dearer yet. I was proud of
her beauty, but prouder of my ancient name, for I was a selfish man."
"We lived in the country, a place remote and quiet, and consequently
led a very solitary, humdrum life, because I was ever fond of books
and flowers and the solitude of trees--a selfish man always. And so,
at last, because she was young and high-spirited, she ran away from
my lonely cottage with one who was a villain. And I grieved for her,
young sirs, I grieved much and long, because I was lonely, but I
grieved more for my name, my honorable name that she had besmirched,
because, as I told you, I was a selfish man." Again the stranger was
silent, sitting ever with bent head staring down at the crystal
waters of the brook, only he clasped his thin hands and wrung them
as he continued: "One evening, as I sat among my roses with a book in my hand, she
came back to me through the twilight, and flung herself upon her
knees before me, and besought my forgiveness with sobs and bitter,
bitter tears. Ah, young sirs! I can hear her weeping yet. The sound
of it is always in my ears. So she knelt to me in her abasement with
imploring hands stretched out to me. Ah, the pity of those white
appealing hands, the pity of them! But I, sirs, being as I say a
selfish man and remembering only my proud and honorable name, I, her
father, spurned her from me with reproaches and vile words, such
burning, searing words as no daughter should hear or father utter."