jerked from his profession. There was no adventure, but lots of
work and reward in proportion.

Perhaps I was a bit more fortunate. I was in love and Hobart was
still a confirmed bachelor. It was a subject over which he was
never done joking. It was not my fault. I was innocent. If the
blame ran anywhere it would have to be placed upon that baby
sister of his.

It happened as it happened since God first made the maiden. One
autumn Hobart and I started off for college. We left Charlotte at
the gate a girl of fifteen years and ten times as many angles. I
pulled one of her pigtails, kissed her, and told her I wanted her
to get pretty. When we came home next summer I went over to pull
the other pigtail. I did not pull it. I was met by the fairest
young woman I had ever looked on. And I could not kiss her.
Seriously, was I to blame?

Now to the incident.

It was a night in September. Hobart had completed his affairs and
had booked passage to South America. He was to sail next morning.
We had dinner that day with his family, and then came up to San
Francisco for a last and farewell bachelor night. We could take in
the opera together, have supper at our favourite cafe, and then
turn in. It was a long hark back to our childhood; but for all
that we were still boys together.

I remember that night. It was our favourite opera--"Faust." It was
the one piece that we could agree on. Looking back since, I have