“I--I don’t need it, thank you,” he replied, “and I never touch it any more. I’ve sworn I never will. The wound I spoke of is on my soul; not my body. I--” “I thought all army men drank once in a while. Shall I get--” “No, thank you. I’m all right again. I don’t know that the majority of army men drink. Though a drink is a consoler after a long day’s march, and it helps drown the memory of the comrade who was shot to pieces at one’s side. But it is a consolation that’s not for me. It consoled me too often--till nothing else worth while would trouble to console me. “Mrs. Sessions, you have been very good to me. I haven’t the words to tell you how good; and-- “And because of that, as well as because no man could lie to eyes like yours, I wanted to tell you something. Something that may make you sorry you’ve done so much for a worthless old derelict. Something that will surely make you ashamed that you honored him with the offer of your husband’s sword. I--I am the James Brinton whose story Captain Sessions told you.” “Land’s sake! You never are!” “And the reason he heard no more of me was because I was ‘dismissed from the service I had degraded,’ and was secretly kicked out of the army. And because I was forever kicked out of it, I had to sneak back into the service under a false name.” “Is that all?” she asked, quietly. “That is all--except to say good-by and get out of the house where I’ve let myself be entertained under false pretenses.” He rose as he spoke; sick at heart, and all at once feeling very, very old and wretched. He realized with a queer pang that the last hour had somehow been the happiest he had ever known. And by contrast the future seemed to stretch away before him dreary and barren as a rainy sea. Dad took an uncertain step toward the head of the attic stairs. A small and determined figure barred his way. “Go back!” came the imperious command. “Go right back where you were, and sit down there. You may have said all _you’ve_ got to say. But _I_ haven’t, by a long shot.” Dully he obeyed her. His flesh shrank from the thought of listening to the merited tongue-lashing that he felt was his due. Yet, like a scared schoolboy, he recognized and meekly obeyed the note of authority in his hostess’s voice. “Now, then!” she said, planting herself squarely in front of him. “Aren’t you ashamed, Sergeant James Brinton? Aren’t you _ashamed_? Tolling me on like that to say scand’lous things about a poor man whose story I only half-knew. Oh, I’m a cruel, shrewish old woman to go on like I did about Brinton--about you. “Who am I to sit in judgment on a poor, weak man whose love for drink overcomes him sometimes? Why, I’m just every mite as bad myself. Without my morning cup of tea, I’m no good at all. I lean on it as men lean on whisky.” “But, madam--” he stammered.