house, its walls are ever echoing to unseen feet. Through the broken casements we watch the flitting shadows of the dead, and the saddest shadows of them all are the shadows of our own dead selves.
Oh, those young bright faces, so full of truth and honour, of pure, good thoughts, of noble longings, how reproachfully they look upon us, with their deep, clear eyes!
I fear they have good cause for their sorrow, poor lads. Lies and cunning, and disbelief have crept into our hearts since those pre-shaving days—and we meant to be so great and good.
It is well we cannot see into the future. There are few boys of fourteen who would not feel ashamed of themselves at forty.
I like to sit and have a talk sometimes with that odd little chap that was myself long ago. I think he likes it too, for he comes so often of an evening when I am alone with my pipe, listening to the whispering of the flames. I see his solemn little face looking at me through the scented smoke as it floats upward, and I smile at him; and he smiles back at me, but his is such a grave, old-fashioned smile. We chat about old times; and now and then he takes me by the hand, and then we slip through the black bars of the grate and down the dusky glowing caves to the land that lies behind the firelight. There we find the days that used to be, and we wander along them together. He tells
