THE MAJOR'S STORY. 275 



Open another bottle of claret, John. What, not another ! 

 Certainly, man, I must have it. This is only the second, 

 and Mr. has drank half, of course. Not drank any ! 

 You don't mean to say that he has been drinking nothing 

 all the blessed evening ? Effendi, I thought you knew my 

 rules better than that. But you always would have your 

 own way. 



" One more bottle, John but one. It shall be the last ; 

 and, John, get some Maraschino one of the thick, black 

 bottles with the small necks, and open it. But you know 

 how, old fellow, and just do your best to make us com- 

 fortable. 



" How the wind howls ! My boy, I am seventy-three 

 years old, and seven days over. My birthday was a week 

 ago to-day. 



" An old bachelor ! Yea, verily. One of the oldest 

 kind. But what is age? What is the paltry sum of 

 seventy years ? Do you think I am any older in my soul 

 than I was half a century ago ? Do you think, because 

 my blood flows slower, that my mind thinks more slowly, 

 my feelings spring up less freely, my hopes are less buoy- 

 ant, less cheerful, if they look forward only weeks instead 

 of years ? I tell you, boy, that seventy years are a day in 

 the sweep of memory; and 'once young forever young' 

 is the motto of an immortal soul. I know I am what men 

 call old; I know my cheeks are wrinkled like parchment, 

 and my lips are thin, and my head gray even to silver. But 

 in my soul I feel that I am young, and I shall be young 

 till the earthly ceases and the unearthly and eternal be- 

 gins. 



" I have not grown one day older than I was at thirty- 

 two. I have never advanced a day since then. All my 

 life long since that has been one day one short day ; no 



