I must relate an incident that occurred during one of my later vacations. There was a holiday. Mr. Percy had been all the morning writing a judgment on one of his court cases. I had entered the library to get a book and seeing him at his desk, I begged his pardon for interrupting and was turning to leave when he said, “Don’t go, Charles, I have finished my work and am now ready for a holiday.” So we sat and chatted. I was looking toward two photographs on the mantel that I had seen there ever since I entered his house. I never asked about them, and in fact I never questioned him about his life. He had told me many things and I felt that he would tell me all whatever he wished me to know and that I ought not to make inquiries. I was conscious that he had some secrets that were sacred to himself. Everybody should have such secrets. I have a kind of pity for those who will tell all their family affairs, to every gossip who comes along, and a contempt for those who besmirch their own relatives, for in doing so they are throwing dirt on their own faces. Hearing a man talk of his brother as a liar and thief, one cannot but suspect that some of the same blood may run in the veins of the narrator. Some may say before I finish this narrative that I do not practice what I teach; but who does? Truth is truth at all times and everywhere, no matter if people do often stretch it beyond its power of tension. I am laying down a rule in general, “Don’t do as I do, but as I tell you.” Besides my excuse for my course in this narration that, as I am stating facts, I am compelled to make my face still blacker by telling the truth about my own existence, which I regret and lament as much as any mortal man can regret anything. These, however, are thoughts of my later life, and not at all referring to Mr. Percy.