He had stopped under the portrait--my godfather's portrait. All his Irish rhodomontade went straight out of my head, and I ran to him. "Uncle, you know I adore her! But there's one thing she won't do, and, oh, I wish you would! It's years since she told me never to ask, and I've been on honour, and I've never even asked nurse; but I don't think it's wrong to ask you. Who is that man behind you, who looks such a wonderfully fine fellow? My Godfather Bayard." I had experienced a shock the night before, but nothing to the shock of seeing Uncle Patrick's face then, and hearing him sob out his words, instead of their flowing like a stream. "Is it possible? Ye don't know? She can't speak of him yet? Poor Geraldine!" He controlled himself, and turned to the picture, leaning on his crutch. I stood by him and gazed too, and I do not think, to save my life, I could have helped asking-- "Who is he?" "Your uncle. Our only brother. Oh, Bayard, Bayard!" "Is he dead?" He nodded, speechless; but somehow I could not forbear. "What did he die of?" "Of unselfishness. He died--for others." "Then he _was_ a hero? That's what he looks like. I am glad he is my godfather. Dear Uncle Pat, do tell me all about it." "Not now--hereafter. Nephew, any man--with the heart of man and not of a mouse--is more likely than not to behave well at a pinch; but no man who is habitually selfish can be _sure_ that he will, when the choice comes sharp between his own life and the lives of others. The impulse of a supreme moment only focusses the habits and customs of a man's soul. The supreme moment may never come, but habits and customs mould us from the cradle to the grave. His were early disciplined by our dear mother, and he bettered her teaching. Strong for the weak, wise for the foolish--tender for the hard--gracious for the surly--good for the evil. Oh, my brother, without fear and without reproach! Speak across the grave, and tell your sister's son that vice and cowardice become alike impossible to a man who has never--cradled in selfishness, and made callous by custom--learned to pamper himself at the expense of others!" I waited a little before I asked-- "Were you with him when he died?" "I was." "Poor Uncle Patrick! What _did_ you do?" He pegged away to the sofa, and threw himself on it. "Played the fool. Broke an arm and a thigh, and damaged my spine, and--_lived_. Here rest the mortal remains." And for the next ten minutes, he mocked himself, as he only can. * * * * * One does not like to be outdone by an uncle, even by such an uncle; but it is not very easy to learn to live like Godfather Bayard.