le and
caressing tongue the tears as they rolled down the furrowed cheeks, when
the fountain of grief within was stirred by the angel of recollection.
But it was from the sympathy of his faithful and loving companion, and
not from the moving of the bitter waters, that his aching heart found
consolation.

Tell you about the man? Why, certainly; but there isn't much to tell.
You see, no one knew much of him, for he seldom if ever spoke of
himself. I suppose I knew him better than anyone on his beat here, for I
fell in love with his dog, and with himself, too, for that matter, for,
in the first place, he was old, and whoever saw a white head and didn't
love it, and whoever looked upon a wrinkled face and didn't wish to kiss
it, if it was peaceful, and the old man's head was as white as snow is,
and the peacefulness of a sleeping child hovered over the sadness of his
face, albeit the shadow of a sorrowful past lay darkly resting upon it.
But though I saw much of him as he swung around on his annual visit, and
though he looked upon me as his friend--as, indeed, I was, and proved
myself to be such more than once, thank God!--still he never offered to
tell me his history, and I certainly never questioned him about it. For
life is a secret thing, and each man holds the key to his own; and only
once, if at all, may it be opened, and even then only the Father is
gentle and forgiving enough to look upon the wheat and the chaff which
we in our grief or joy keep closely locked from human eyes.

No, I knew little of him; but occasionally, sitting by the fire here
when a storm was heavy outside, for the coming of storms was always the
prelude of these moods in him, he would begin to mutter to himself, and
to talk to his dog of days long gone; of men and women he had once hated
or loved, or who loved or hated him--God knows which--and of deeds he
had once done, but which were now deeply buried under the years.

Perhaps he did not know that he was talking. Perhaps his soul, busy with
the past, forgot the motion of the lips and ceased to keep its watch
over the movements of that member which, unless ceaselessly guarded,
betrays us all so often. What did he mutter about? Well, the man is dead
and gone, and what little there is to tell cannot pain him now. Death
makes us indifferent to disclosure, and little do we care what the world
says about us when we lie sleeping in the grave, I ween. Yes, the man is
dead and gone this many a year;