bubbling laughs straight from his heart, the trouble, no matter how
serious, was over. What some men gained by anger and invective St.
George gained by good humor, ranging from the faint smile of toleration
to the roar of merriment. One reason why he had so few enemies--none,
practically--was that he could invariably disarm an adversary with a
laugh. It was a fine old blade that he wielded; only a few times in his
life had he been called upon to use any other--when some under-dog was
maltreated, or his own good name or that of a friend was traduced, or
some wrong had to be righted--then his face would become as hot steel
and there would belch out a flame of denunciation that would scorch and
blind in its intensity. None of these fiercer moods did the boy
know;--what he knew was his uncle's merry side--his sympathetic, loving
side,--and so, following up his advantage, he strode across the room,
settled down on the arm of his uncle's chair, and put his arm about his
shoulders.

"Won't you go and see her, please?" he pleaded, patting his back,
affectionately.

"What good will that do? Hand me a match, Harry."

"Everything--that's what I came for."

"Not with Kate! She isn't a child--she's a woman," he echoed back
between the puffs, his indignation again on the rise. "And she is
different from the girls about here," he added, tossing the burned match
in the fire. "When she once makes up her mind it stays made up."

"Don't let her make it up! Go and see her and tell her how I love her
and how miserable I am. Tell her I'll never break another promise to her