On the afternoon of which I write, those two were facing a crisis that
made them blind to everything of lesser import. Paul Verdayne--the man
--realized this to the full. His companion--the Boy--was dimly but just
as acutely conscious of it. The question had come at last--the question
that Paul Verdayne had been dreading for years.

"Uncle Paul," the Boy was saying, "what relation are you to me? You are
not really my uncle, though I have been taught to call you so after this
quaint English fashion of yours. I know it is something of a secret, but
I know no more! We are closer comrades, it seems to me--you and I--than
any others in all the world. We always understand each other, somehow,
almost without words--is it not so? I even bear your name, and I am
proud of it, because it is yours. But why must there be so much mystery
about our real relationship? Won't you tell me just what I am to you?"

The question, long-looked-for as it was, found the elder man all
unprepared. Is any one ever ready for any dire calamity, however
certainly expected? He paced up and down under the tall trees of the
park and for a time did not answer. Then he paused and laid his hand
upon the shoulder of the Boy with a tenderness of touch that proved
better than any words how close was the bond between them.

"Tell you what you are to me! I could never, never do that! You are
everything to me, everything!"

The Boy made a motion as if to speak, but the man forestalled him.

"We're jolly good friends, aren't we--the very best of companions? In
all the world there is no man, woman or child that is half so near and