table, slender and pale, his head swathed in bandages. He did not
move, but his eyes, bright in the lamplight, were fixed upon me in a
steady and wondering stare.

"Just like my poor father," I said. "He had the falling sickness. Some
kind of vertigo. It puzzled the doctors. They never could make out
what was the matter with him."

"He is dead?" she queried gently, setting before me half a dozen
soft-boiled eggs.

"Dead," I gulped. "Two weeks ago. I was with him when it happened. We
were crossing the street together. He fell right down. He was never
conscious again. They carried him into a drug-store. He died there."

And thereat I developed the pitiful tale of my father--how, after my
mother's death, he and I had gone to San Francisco from the ranch; how
his pension (he was an old soldier), and the little other money he
had, was not enough; and how he had tried book-canvassing. Also, I
narrated my own woes during the few days after his death that I had
spent alone and forlorn on the streets of San Francisco. While that
good woman warmed up biscuits, fried bacon, and cooked more eggs, and
while I kept pace with her in taking care of all that she placed
before me, I enlarged the picture of that poor orphan boy and filled
in the details. I became that poor boy. I believed in him as I
believed in the beautiful eggs I was devouring. I could have wept for
myself. I know the tears did get into my voice at times. It was very
effective.

In fact, with every touch I added to the picture, that kind soul gave