nd where, throwing
off the cares of life,--shut out from them, as it were, by the massive
folds of the heavy drapery across the door,--. we talked in all the
fearless freedom of old friendship, rambling away from theme to theme,
contrasting our experiences, balancing our views in life, and mingling
through our converse the racy freshness of a boy's enjoyment with the
sager counsels of a man's reflectiveness. Alas! how very early is it
sometimes in life that we tread "the banquet-hall deserted." But to our
story: the evening wore pleasantly on; Upton talked, as few but himself
could do, upon the public questions of the day; and Harcourt, with many
a blunt interruption, made the discourse but more easy and amusing. The
soldier was, indeed, less at his ease than the others. It was not alone
that many of the topics were not such as he was most familiar with, but
he felt angry and indignant at Glencore's seeming indifference as to the
fate of his son. Not a single reference to him even occurred; his name
was never even passingly mentioned. Nothing but the careworn, sickly
face, the wasted form and dejected expression before him, could have
restrained Harcourt from alluding to the boy. He bethought him, however,
that any indiscretion on his part might have the gravest consequences.
Upton, too, might have said something to quiet Glencore's mind. "At
all events, I'll wait," said he to himself; "for wherever there is much
delicacy in a negotiation, I generally make a mess of it." The more
genially, therefore, did Glencore lend himself to the pleasure of the
conversation, the more provoked did Harcourt feel at his heartlessness,
and the more did the struggle cost him to control his own sentiments.

Upton, who detected the secret working of men's minds with a marvellous
exactness, saw how the poor Colonel was suffering, and that, in all
probability, some unhappy explosion would at last ensue, and took an
opportunity of remarking that though all this chit-chat was delightful
for them, Glencore was still a sick man.

"We must n't forget, Harcourt," said he, "that a chicken-broth diet
includes very digestible small-talk; and here we are leading our poor
friend through politics, war, diplomacy, and the rest of it, just as if
he had the stomach of an old campaigner and--"

"And the brain of a great diplomatist! Say it out, man, and avow
honestly the share of excellence you accord to each of us," broke in
Harcourt, laughing.

"I wou