"Now, I'll tell you a story," continued Henry, "that bears upon the
subject. It's a pretty story, if you look at it from one point of view;
though my wife maintains--and she's a bit of a judge, mind you--that it's
not yet finished, she arguing that there's a difference between marrying
and being married. You can have a fancy for the one, without caring much
about the other. What I tell her is that a boy isn't a man, and a man
isn't a boy. Besides, it's five years ago now, and nothing has happened
since: though of course one can never say."

"I would like to hear the story," I ventured to suggest; "I'll be able to
judge better afterwards."

"It's not a long one," replied Henry, "though as a matter of fact it
began seventeen years ago in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He was a wild
young fellow, and always had been."

"Who was?" I interrupted.

"Tom Sleight," answered Henry, "the chap I'm telling you about. He
belonged to a good family, his father being a Magistrate for
Monmouthshire; but there had been no doing anything with young Tom from
the very first. At fifteen he ran away from school at Clifton, and with
everything belonging to him tied up in a pocket-handkerchief made his way
to Bristol Docks. There he shipped as boy on board an American schooner,
the Cap'n not pressing for any particulars, being short-handed, and the
boy himself not volunteering much. Whether his folks made much of an
effort to get him back, or whether they didn't, I can't tell you. Maybe,
they thought a little roughing it would knock some sense into him.
Anyhow, the fact remains that for the next seven or eight years, until
the sudden death of his father made him a country gentleman, a more or