ever since to talk about
your debt, though the Statute of Limitations has closed it for years.
. . . That, Master, is the story."

"You have told it fairly enough," said Warboise. "Now, since the
Master knows it, I'd be glad to be told if that man is my friend or
my enemy. Upon my word I don't rightly know, and if he knows he'll
never find speech to tell me. Sometimes I think he's both."

"I am not sure that one differs very much from the other, in the long
run," said Copas.

But the Master, who had been musing, turned to Warboise with a quick
smile.

"Surely," he said, "there is one easy way of choosing. Take the poor
fellow some little gift. If you will accept it for him, I shall be
happy to contribute now and then some grapes or a bottle of wine or
other small comforts."

He paused, and added with another smile, still more penetrating--

"You need not give up talking of the debt, you know!"

By this time they had reached the gateway of his lodging, and he gave
them a fatherly good night just as a child's laugh reached them
through the dusk at the end of the roadway. It was Corona, returning
from rehearsal; and the Chaplain--the redoubtable William the
Conqueror--was her escort. The two had made friends on their
homeward way, and were talking gaily.

"Why, here is Uncle Copas!" called Corona, and ran to him.

Mr. Colt relinquished his charge with a wave of the hand.
His manner showed that he accepted the new truce _de bon coeur_.

"Is it peace, you two?" he called, as he went past.

Brother Warboise growled. _What hast thou to do with peace?
Get thee behind me_, the growl seemed to suggest. At all events, it
suggested this answer to Brother Copas--

"If you and Jehu the son of Nimshi start exchanging roles," he
chuckled, "where will Weekes come in?"

Master Blanchminster let himself in with his latchkey, and went up
the stairs to his library. On the way he meditated on the story to
which he had just listened, and the words that haunted his mind were
Wordsworth's--

"Alas! the gratitude of men
Hath oftener left me mourning."

A solitary light burned in the library--the electric lamp on his
table beside the fire-place. It had a green shade, and for a second
or two the Master did not perceive that someone stood a pace or two
from it in the penumbra.

"Master!"

"Hey!"--with a start--"Is it Simeon? . . . My good Simeon, you made
me jump. What brings you back here at this hou