shot between me and my towering assailant. It caught him full in the
middle; he doubled like a staple and with a cry of pain toppled into
the snow. This gave me a brief respite to compel my fallen enemy to
capitulate, and when I turned from him, his brother was still
staggering about in drunken fashion, gasping and crying, "Foul!" Tim
did not know what he meant, but was standing alert, with head lowered,
ready to charge again at the first sign of renewed attack. He knew
neither "fight foul" nor "fight fair"; he knew only a brother in
trouble, and he had come to him in his best might.

That was the real Tim!

"I guess me and you can whip most anybody, Mark," he said, as he looked
up at me from his silly spelling-book that day.

"As long as we stick together, Tim," I whispered in return.

He laughed. Of course we would always stand together.

That was long ago. Life is an everlasting waking up. We leave behind
us an endless trail of dreams. The real life is but a waking moment.
After all, it was the real Tim who had gone singing by as I crouched in
the shadow of the school-house. The comrade of my school-days, who had
fought for me with eyes closed and with the fury of a child, the
companion of the hunt, racing with me over the ridges with Captain
singing on before us, the brother at the fireside at night, poring over
some rare novel--he was only a phantom. Between me and the real man
there was no bond. He had grown above the valley; I was becoming more
and more a part of it, like the lone pine on Gander Knob, or the
piebald horse that drew the stage. His clothes alone had made wider