One day, toward evening, we were walking in the garden and came to one of the benches, when we seated ourselves. Some reference was made to the orphanage where I had been placed. I then told him that I had overheard him tell the Padri that he would not take me away until I was larger. I related my experience in bending all my energies to increase my growth; how I fed myself, exercised, how I hung by the arms and chin from the pole, measured my height each Sunday, by marks on the wall, and thought of tying weights to my legs at night, as I was determined to be released from the place as soon as possible. He listened without a word, with a questioning smile playing over his face, until I had finished, and then he unbent with laughter. He laughed till the tears came, and I had to laugh too, for I couldn’t help it, and Cockear, who had been gravely listening, broke out with his dog laugh. And why shouldn’t we laugh? If the man who hath no music in his soul is fit for treason, stratagems and spoils, what might be said of the man who never laughs? Beware of him. I never felt the least embarrassment from Mr. Percy’s laughter, even when it was caused by some nonsense of my own, for it was always so good-natured, joyous and spontaneous. It was rather an incentive to me to tell him something laughable. Had his laugh been coarse or sarcastic, which was impossible, it would have shut me up at once. He was as open and free with me as if I was an intimate friend, so that I had no hesitation in telling him everything, even my mistakes and follies. There are few people we can trust in talking truly from our hearts, and how few parents are the confidants of their children, when they should be first of all in their hearts and lives. But why should I, now an old man, a unit—and a very insignificant one among the wise millions of the world—talk of such things? I have to constantly remind myself of the habits of old people to run into tedious details, and so, often check myself, or I shall never finish my history.