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 



