that he must begin earlier. "Like the old man of Israel, I am now ready
to die," he said, as he put down his glass.

"Not until you have had another drink," suggested the Major.

"A further evidence, John, of your cool judgment. You are a remarkable
man. Most anyone can support a sorrow, but you can restrain a joy, and
in that is shown man's completest victory over self. No, I am not quite
ready to die. But I believe that if a drop of this liquor, this
saint-essence, had been poured into a camphor bottle, I should have
dropped dead, that's all, and Peter himself would have complimented me
upon the exquisite sensitiveness of my organization. Pour me just about
two fingers--or three. That's it. If the commander of the Alabama had
taken a few drinks of his grandfather's nectar, the Confederacy would
have wanted a blockade runner."

"You don't mean to say that it would have softened his nerve, do you?"

"Oh, no; but his heart, attuned to sweet melody, would have turned from
frowning guns to a beautiful nook in some river's bend, there to sing
among flowers dripping with honey-dew. I gad, this would make an old man
young before it could make him drunk."

The Major brought two pipes and an earthen jar of tobacco; and with the
smoke came musings and with the liquor came fanciful conceits. To them
it was a pride that they could drink without drunkenness; in moderation
was a continuous pleasure. When Gid arose to go, he took an oath that
never had he passed so delightful a time. The Major pressed him to stay
to supper. "Oh, no, John," he replied; "supper would spoil my spiritual
flow. And besides, I am expecting visitors to-night."

He hummed a tune as he cantered down the road; and the Major in his
library hummed the same tune as he stretched out his feet to the fire.

As Gid was passing the house of Wash Sanders, the endless invalid came
out upon the porch and called him:

"Won't you 'light?"

"No, don't believe I've got time," Gid answered, slacking the pace of
his horse. "How are you getting along?"

"Not at all. Got no relish for victuals. Don't eat enough to keep a
chicken alive. Can't stand it much longer."

"Want to bet on it?" Gid cried.

"What's that?"

"I say I'm sorry to hear it."

"Glad to know that somebody sympathizes with me. Well, drop in some time
and we'll take a chaw of tobacco and spit the fire out."

Nothing could have been more expressive of a welcome to Wash's house. To
invite a man to