bottle half-filled with some red liquid, and
as he poured a portion of this into two glasses he explained:

"I don't have this sort of thing on the table, you understand, on
account of the children and my--ah--position. It would make talk.
But I tell you this is some of the real old stuff. How!" And he
held his glass up to the light, regarding it with the one eye of a
connoisseur, and then drank down its contents with a smack. I was
considerably astonished, on doing the same, to discover that this dark
beverage--which, from Armstrong's manner, I had been prepared to find
something at least as wicked as absinthe--was simply and solely
Bordeaux of a mild quality. After this Bacchanalian proceeding we went
out into the orchard, which was reserved for family use, and sat on a
bench under an apple-tree. Armstrong called his little boy who had
been at supper with us and gave him a whispered message, together
with some small change. The messenger disappeared, and after a short
absence returned with two very domestic cigars, transparently bought
for the nonce from some neighboring grocer. "Have a smoke," commanded
my host, and we solemnly kindled the rolls of yellow leaf, Armstrong
puffing away at his with the air of a man who, though intrusted by
destiny with the responsibility of molding the characters of youth,
has not forgotten how to be a man of the world on occasion.

"Well, Charley," I began, after a few preliminary draughts, "you seem
to have a good thing of it. Your school is prosperous, I understand;
the work suits you; you have a mighty pretty family of children
growing up, and your health appears to be perfect."

"Yes," he admitted; "I suppose I ought to be thankful. I certainly
enjoy great mercies. It's a warm, crowded kind of life; plenty of
affection,--plenty of anxiety too, to be sure. I like to have the boys
around me; it keeps one's heart fresh, though in a way it's sometimes
wearing to the nerves. Yes, I like the young rascals--I like them.
But, of course, it has its drawbacks. Most careers have," he added, in
a burst of commonplace.

"It is not exactly the career that you had cut out for yourself," I
suggested, "when we talked our plans over, you remember, that last
evening at New Haven."

"No, it's not," he acknowledged; "but perhaps it is a better one. What
was it I said then? I really don't recall it. Something very silly,
no doubt."

"Oh, you said, in a general way, that you were going in for mone