Mayne smiled as the little boy carefully laid the box on his knee;
but there was a shadow of pain in his eyes, and he closed them
for a few seconds, as if his mind were going back, somewhere, far
away. Then he spoke, tenderly, but with a grave voice.

"That's fine, sonny--all those tin soldiers. But don't you think
they ought to belong to me? You have lots of other toys, you know.
Would you give the soldiers to me?"

The child looked up at him, puzzled for a moment; then a flash of
comprehension passed over his face, and he nodded valiantly.

"Sure, Father," he said, "You're the Captain. Keep the soldiers.
I'll play with the other toys," and he skipped out of the room.

Mayne's look followed him with love. Then he turned to the old
Pastor and a strange expression came into his face, half whimsical
and half grim.

"Doctor," he said, "will you do me a favor? Poke up that fire till
it blazes. That's right. Now lay this box in the hottest part of
the flames. That's right. It will soon be gone."

The elder man did what was asked, with an air of slight bewilderment,
as one humors the fancies of an invalid. He wondered whether Mayne's
fever had quite left him. He watched the fire bulging the lid and
catching round the edges of the box. Then he heard Mayne's voice
behind him, speaking very quietly.