seething city, the centre of all his hopes of the future; and then,
at night, this meeting, overwhelming him with the crowded memories
of everything that he held precious in the past.

There were groups of men in faded uniforms standing about in the
corridors. General Prentice bowed here and there as they retired and
took the elevator to the reception-rooms. In the doorway they passed
a stout little man with stubby white moustaches, and the General
stopped, exclaiming, "Hello, Major!" Then he added: "Let me
introduce Mr. Allan Montague. Montague, this is Major Thorne."

A look of sudden interest flashed across the Major's face. "General
Montague's son?" he cried. And then he seized the other's hand in
both of his, exclaiming, "My boy! my boy! I'm glad to see you!"

Now Montague was no boy--he was a man of thirty, and rather sedate
in his appearance and manner; there was enough in his six feet one
to have made two of the round and rubicund little Major. And yet it
seemed to him quite proper that the other should address him so. He
was back in his boyhood to-night--he was a boy whenever anyone
mentioned the name of Major Thorne.

"Perhaps you have heard your father speak of me?" asked the Major,
eagerly; and Montague answered, "A thousand times."

He was tempted to add that the vision that rose before him was of a
stout gentleman hanging in a grape-vine, while a whole battery of
artillery made him their target.

Perhaps it was irreverent, but that was what Montague had always