"There again! That is just one of the questions I don't want to answer. I quite sympathized with you last night in not wishing to know how much of Mr. Armstrong's story was true. Even if wholly fictitious, a good story is always true. But there are things which one would have no right to invent, which would be worth nothing if they were invented, from the very circumstance of their origin in the brain, and not in the world. The very beauty of them demands that they should be fact; or, if not, that they should not be told--sent out poor unclothed spirits into the world before a body of fact has been prepared for them. But I have always found it impossible to define the kinds of stories I mean. The nearest I can come to it is this: If the force of the lesson depends on the story being a fact, it must not be told except it is a fact. Then again, there are true things that one would be shy of telling, if he thought they would be attributed to himself. Now this story of mine is made up of fiction and fact both. And I fear that if I were called upon to take it to pieces, it would lose the force of any little truth it possesses, besides exposing me to what I would gladly avoid. Indeed I fear I ought not to read it at all." "You are amongst friends, you know, Mr. Bloomfield." "Entirely?" he asked, with a half comic expression. "Well," I answered, laughing, "any exception that may exist, is hardly worth considering, and indeed ought to be thankfully accepted, as tending to wholesomeness. Neither vinegar nor mustard would be desirable as food, you know; yet--" "I understand you. I am ashamed of having made such a fuss about nothing. I will do my best, I assure you." I fear that the fastidiousness of the good man will not be excuse enough for the introduction of such a long preamble to a story for which only a few will in the least care. But the said preamble happening to touch on some interesting subjects, I thought it well to record it. As to the story itself, there are some remarks of Balzac in the introduction to one of his, that would well apply to the schoolmaster's. They are to the effect that some stories which have nothing in them as stories, yet fill one with an interest both gentle and profound, if they are read in the mood that is exactly fitted for their just reception. Mr. Bloomfield conducted me to the door. "I hope you will not think me a grumbler," he said; "I should not like your disapprobation, Mr. Smith." "You do me great honour," I said, honestly. "Believe me there is no danger of that. I understand and sympathize with you entirely." "My love of approbation is large," he said, tapping the bump referred to with his forefinger. "Excuse it and me too." "There is no need, my dear friend," I said, "if I may call you such." His answer was a warm squeeze of the hand, with which we parted.