them inside their shirt bosoms; and how she broke down and cried, and
could in her turn have worshipped those men--loved them, every one.
They were boys all, and gentlemen all. There were college men,
artists, poets, musicians, journalists--Bohemians all. Men from all
the lands and one. They understood art--and poverty was dead.

And perhaps the old mate would say slyly, but with a sad, quiet smile:

"Have you got that bit of straw yet, Tom?"

Those old mates had each three pasts behind them. The two they told
each other when they became mates, and the one they had shared.

And when the visitor had gone by the coach we noticed that the old man
would smoke a lot, and think as much, and take great interest in the
fire, and be a trifle irritable perhaps.

Those old mates of our father's are
getting few and far between, and only happen along once in a way to
keep the old man's memory fresh, as it were. We met one to-day, and
had a yarn with him, and afterwards we got thinking, and somehow began
to wonder whether those ancient friends of ours were, or were not,
better and kinder to their mates than we of the rising generation are
to our fathers; and the doubt is painfully on the wrong side.




SETTLING ON THE LAND