"I thank you, sir, more than tongue can tell," he said, quietly,
as he restored the pipe to its owner. "If you could only realise
what I have suffered through this deprivation! I, an inveterate
smoker; yet suddenly deprived of it, and so kept for ten long
years! If I had had a pipe and tobacco, I believe--but enough."

"I can sympathise with you, at least in part, my friend. Will
you have another smoke, by the way?"

"No, no, not now; I feel blessed for the moment, and more might
be worse than none, after so long deprivation. And--may I talk
openly to you, dear, kind friends? May I tell you--am I selfish
in wishing to trouble you thus? Ten years, remember, and not a
soul to speak with!"

He laughed, but it was a sorry mirth; and not caring to trust his
tongue just then, uncle Phaeton nodded his head emphatically
while filling his pipe for himself. But Waldo never lacked for
words, and spoke out:

"That's all right, sir; we can listen as long as you can
chin-chin. Tell us all about--well, what's the matter with that
big Injun?"

"Quiet, Waldo. Say what best pleases you, my friend. You can be
sure of one thing,--sympathetic listeners, if nothing better."

With a curious shiver, as though afflicted with a sudden chill,
Edgecombe turned partly away, figure drawn rigidly erect, hands
tightly clasped behind his back. A brief silence, then he spoke