“I am rather set against graveyards as a rule, but this is nice and curious and lonely,” he said. Lester did not answer him and Philip continued: “I haven't been out here in years. I guess not since we buried Mr. Benedict. Do you remember when we buried Mr. Benedict, Lester? I recall it as one of the most gratifying events of my childhood. I got a whole day from school in honor of the affair.” Philip raised himself on tiptoe and peered over the fence. Lester paid no heed to Philip nor to what he was saying. He leaned silent and sullen against a tree that stood by the path, and gazed off into the frosty distance in the direction of the town. Out of this distance there floated a confusion of sounds—harmonized and softened by time and place; while through it all, clinging to the heavy atmosphere, drifted the odor of burning leaves and the musty scent of dying vegetation. There was a touch of sad regret in the night as though something that had been beautiful was ended. The boy felt this in its kinship to the ruin he had wrought in his own life. “You are no doubt wondering why I spoke to you,” he said at last. Philip nodded his head: “You know, Lester, we haven't had much to do with each other in some while.” “I want to talk with you.” “Well, go ahead, for it has just occurred to me that I promised to be home in time for supper.” Lester turned a pair of bloodshot eyes full on Philip and asked: “You think I have been a fool, don't you?” Philip shifted his feet uneasily. He felt that truth played such an insignificant part in the exercise of civility. “You think I have been a fool?” Lester repeated. “Before I answer that I'd like to know why you ask. You see the reason that prompts an inquiry is more than apt to determine its answer with me. I always wish to give satisfaction.” “I ask because I'd like to know what you think of me. I don't suppose you have any sort of use for me. You don't know, Philip, how bad I have wanted some one to talk to for days and days—some one who is not like myself. And when I saw you to-night, I made up my mind that you should hear what I have to say. I can't keep it any longer—my head will burst if I do—can you listen?” “Go ahead,—I'm listening.” “For the most part it's nothing but what you know. It's just about my being such a fool. Yes, yes—and it's more than that!” Philip saw that he was powerfully excited, that there were tears in the eyes of this boy, with a man's heavy burden of sin on his shoulders. “You know about the money I got when I came of age; the money my father left me when he died. I—you know what a circus I made of myself. How every last cent of it is gone?” “Yes, it's the gossip—and I hear it.” Lester paced back and forth in front of Philip for a moment, and then leaned dejectedly against a tree.