"I used to think of you, Grant, when I pulled out Monday morning in my best suit--cost fifteen dollars in those days." He smiled a little at the recollection. "While you in overalls and an old 'wammus' was going out into the field to plough, or husk corn in the mud. It made me feel uneasy, but, as I said, I kept saying to myself, 'His turn'll come in a year or two.' But it didn't." His voice choked. He walked to the door, stood a moment, came back. His eyes were full of tears. "I tell you, old man, many a time in my boarding-house down to the city, when I thought of the jolly times I was having, my heart hurt me. But I said, 'It's no use to cry. Better go on and do the best you can, and then help them afterward. There'll only be one more miserable member of the family if you stay at home.' Besides, it seemed right to me to have first chance. But I never thought you'd be shut off, Grant. If I had, I never would have gone on. Come, old man, I want you to believe that." His voice was very tender now and almost humble. "I don't know as I blame you for that, How.," said Grant, slowly. It was the first time he had called Howard by his boyish nickname. His voice was softer, too, and higher in key. But he looked steadily away. "I went to New York. People liked my work. I was very successful, Grant; more successful than you realize. I could have helped you at any time. There's no use lying about it. And I ought to have done it; but some way--it's no excuse, I don't mean it for an excuse, only an explanation--some way I got in with the boys. I don't mean I was a drinker and all that. But I bought pictures and kept a horse and a yacht, and of course I had to pay my share of all expeditions, and--oh, what's the use!" He broke off, turned, and threw his open palms out toward his brother, as if throwing aside the last attempt at an excuse. "I did neglect you, and it's a damned shame! and I ask your forgiveness. Come, old man!" He held out his hand, and Grant slowly approached and took it. There was a little silence. Then Howard went on, his voice trembling, the tears on his face. "I want you to let me help you, old man. That's the way to forgive me. Will you?" "Yes, if you can help me." Howard squeezed his hand. "That's all right, old man. Now you make me a boy again. Course I can help you. I've got ten--" "I don't mean that, How." Grant's voice was very grave. "Money can't give me a chance now." "What do you mean?" "I mean life ain't worth very much to me. I'm too old to take a new start. I'm a dead failure. I've come to the conclusion that life's a failure for ninety-nine per cent of us. You can't help me now. It's too late." The two men stood there, face to face, hands clasped, the one fair-skinned, full-lipped, handsome in his neat suit; the other tragic, sombre in his softened mood, his large, long, rugged Scotch face bronzed with sun and scarred with wrinkles that had histories, like sabre-cuts on a veteran, the record of his battles.