His friend in his later years was another old man; not a scholar, but a man who had worked hard and lived hard, and at sunset took his rest. He too, had many graces. On Sunday afternoons whenever the weather would permit the old professor sought him out and they walked afield, or by the river where the old professor had loved to wander as a boy. If their path were barricaded by a turnstile it always meant a lengthy parley as to whom should cross it first. "After you, my friend," the old professor would say, bowing low. Lifting a protesting hand, "No," the other would respond, "after you." "I insist," the old professor would contend. The other would indicate the turnstile with a gesture. "You first," he would repeat. And so they would stand there bowing, insisting, until, neither seeing fit to give way, they would retrace their steps and seek a path that had no turnstile. But once, filled with zeal to explore the wood beyond a certain stile, an ingenious plan occurred to the old professor which was immediately carried to a successful issue. Both clambered over the fence at one side of the opening and proceeded on their way. And for a long time after each held the incident as a joke against the other. The conversation of the friends on such occasions was of the life that lay before them, serious; never of the past. And they agreed in their philosophy at all points. They never argued. "Well, friend," the old professor said one day, "when the time comes for us to go I hope we may go together--may continue our walk." "I hope we may," the other answered. "I have always thought," the old professor added with a twinkle in his eyes, "that there must be many a pleasant walk in heaven--after one has left the pavement." III Alike as they were, there was one joy that now and then came into the old professor's life that the other could not share. It came to him when, at widely separated intervals, there crossed his path a man with hair almost as white as his own, who in the days long gone had sat before him on the benches of the class-room as a student, and absorbed his wider wisdom. When such an one he met, the old professor's voice always caught in his throat and he sought to cover the confusion that he suffered by a closer pressure of his hand. Then, the emotion passing, something of the old light would flame up in his eyes. He would step back and exclaim: "Well! well! well!" Then the memories would surge back into his mind and he would gaze abstractedly without speaking. "You remember me?" the other old fellow would ask, gaily. "_Remember_ you!" the old professor would exclaim and nudge him, playfully. "Remember _you_? Well, well, I guess I couldn't _forget_ you if I tried! Why you were the scamp that tied the white mule to my desk-leg and left him there over night so I should be greeted by his bray when I entered the room in the morning! Remember _you_! Ha! ha! I've been waiting all these years to get at you!"