y of extreme old age. He had flashes of reason, too. Mary
began to feel a friendly interest in him. To youth in its flush of life
and vigour there seems something so unspeakably sad and pitiable in
feebleness and age--the brief weak remnant of life, the wreck of body
and mind, sunning itself in the declining rays of a sun that is so soon
to shine upon its grave.

'What, are you not proud?' asked the old man.

'Not at all. I have been taught to consider myself a very insignificant
person; and I am going to marry a poor man. It would not become me to be
proud.'

'But you ought not to do that,' said the old man. 'You ought not to
marry a poor man. Poverty is a bad thing, my dear. You are a pretty
girl, and ought to marry a man with a handsome fortune. Poor men have no
pleasure in this world--they might just as well be dead. I am poor, as
you see. You can tell by this threadbare coat'--he looked down at the
sleeve from which the nap was worn in places--'I am as poor as a church
mouse.'

'But you have kind friends, I dare say,' Mary said, soothingly. 'You are
well taken care of, I am sure.'

'Yes, I am well taken care of--very well taken care of. How long is it,
I wonder--how many weeks, or months, or years, since they have taken
care of me? It seems a long, long time; but it is all like a dream--a
long dream. Once I used to try and wake myself. I used to try and
struggle out of that weary dream. But that was ages ago. I am satisfied
now--I am quite content now--so long as the weather is warm, and I can
sit out here in the sun.'

'It is growing chilly now,' said Mary, 'and I think you ought to go
indoors. I know that I must go.'

'Yes, I must go in now--I am getting shivery,' answered the old man,
meekly. 'But I want to see you again, Mary--I like your face--and I like
your voice. It strikes a chord here,' touching his breast, 'which has
long been silent. Let me see you again, child. When can I see you
again?'

'Do you sit here every afternoon when it is fine?'

'Yes, every day--all day long sometimes when the sun is warm.'

'Then I will come here to see you.'

'You must keep it a secret, then,' said the old man, with a crafty look.
'If you don't they will shut me up in the house, perhaps. They don't
like me to see people, for fear I should talk. I have heard Steadman say
so. Yet what should I talk about, heaven help me? Steadman says my
memory is quite gone, and that I am childish and harmless--childish and
h