eld you
back from the fight. You were your mother's son. It is written all over
you,--and me. And your father loved you doubly that you were his son and
owned her nature. He fell in battle, and she was slain by a crueller
foe, the grief that, seizing us, will not let us live even for those we
love. God rest the faithful dead, give peace to their souls, and
complete their love and their labors! My father and mother are living
yet--the sweetest of blessings at my time of life. You grieved as youth
grieves, but life had its compensations. You are a married man, and you
love as your parents loved, with the fire and tenderness of both. Happy
man! Fortunate woman!"

He stopped before the nearest portrait, and stared at it.

"Well, what do you think of my acquaintance with your history?" he
asked.

"Very clever, Monsignor," answered Horace impressed. "It is like
necromancy, though I see how the trick is done."

"Precisely. It is my own story. It is the story of thousands of boys
whom your set will not regard as American boys, unless when they are
looking for fighting material. Everything and anything that could carry
a gun in the recent war was American with a vengeance. The Boston
Coriolanus kissed such an one and swore that he must have come over in
the Mayflower. But enough--I am not holding a brief for anybody. The
description I have just given you of your life and mine is also----"

"One moment--pardon me," said Horace, "how did you know I was married?"

"And happy?" said Monsignor. "Well, that was easy. When we were talking
to-night at tea about the hanging of Howard Tims, what disgust in your
tone when you cried out, there should be no pity for the wretch that
kills his wife."

"And there should not."

"Of course. But I knew Tims. I met him for an hour, and I did not feel
like hanging him."

"You are a celibate."

"Therefore unprejudiced. But he was condemned by a jury of unmarried
men. A clever fellow he is, and yet he made some curious blunders in his
attempt to escape the other night. I would like to have helped him. I
have a theory of disappearing from the sight of men, which would help
the desperate much. This Tims was a lad of your own appearance,
disposition, history even. I had a feeling that he ought not to die.
What a pity we are too wise to yield always to our feelings."

"But about your theory, Monsignor?" said Horace. "A theory of
disappearing?"

"A few nights ago some friends of mine were d