peacemaking to listen to the amazing words of the old
hermit.

"Yes, happy for the first time in my life," he continued. "I am one
hundred years of age, gentlemen, and I now look it and feel it. That is
as it should be. And my experience has taught me a final lasting lesson.
None of you know it, but, when I was but a very young man I was bitterly
disappointed in love. Ha! ha! Never think it to look at me now, would
you? But I was, and it ruined my entire life. I had a little
money--inherited--and I traveled about in the world for a few years,
then settled in that old hut across the road where I buried myself for
sixty years, becoming crabbed and sour and despicable. Young Tom here
was the first bright spot and, though I admired him, I hated him for
his opportunities, hated him for that which he had that I had not. With
the promise of his invention I thought I saw happiness, a new life for
myself. I got what I wanted, though not in the way I had expected. And I
want to tell you gentlemen that there is nothing in it. With
developments of modern science you may be able to restore a man's
youthful vigor of body, but you can't cure his mind with electricity.
Though I had a youthful body, my brain was the brain of an old
man--memories were there which could not be suppressed. Even had I not
had the fancied death of young Tom on my conscience I should still have
been miserable. I worked. God, how I worked--to forget! But I could not
forget. I was successful in business and made a lot of money. I am more
independent--probably wealthier than you, Alton Forsythe, but that did
not bring happiness. I longed to be myself once more, to have the aches
and pains which had been taken from me. It is natural to age and to die.
Immortality would make of us a people of restless misery. We would
quarrel and bicker and long for death, which would not come to relieve
us. Now it is over for me and I am glad--glad--glad!"

* * * * *

He paused for breath, looking beseechingly at Tom Forsythe. "Tom," he
said, "I suppose you have nothing for me in your heart but hatred. And I
don't blame you. But I wish--I wish you would try and forgive me. Can
you?"

The years had brought increased understanding and tolerance to young
Tom. He stared at Old Crompton and the long-nursed anger over the
destruction of his equipment melted into a strange mixture of pity and
admiration for the courageous old fellow.

"Why, I guess I