The next day when we were alone I spoke to General MacNeill about the portrait, with a curious shyness for which I was at a loss to account. "Ah, the portrait!" he said after me. "You noticed it. And what did you think of it, my dear?" A film came over the fine blue eyes, and I was half-sorry I had spoken of it, yet I was very curious to find out who the original was. "I'm not interested in it as a work of art," I said, "but I can't help fancying that I once saw the original." "Did you, now?" said the General with eager excitement. "Like enough, my dear. He was stationed close by here with his regiment some years ago." "It's the very same," said I. "I thought I remembered the eyes and the mouth. I wonder the boys didn't notice it; but perhaps they've forgotten him. They were only children then." "How did you meet him? Tell me everything about it," cried the General, and in his excitement the film of suffering rolled away from his eyes, and left them bright once more. I told him the story of my accident. "Ah," he kept saying, "that was so like my Lance! Yes, yes; Lance was always so kind and clever. He kept his wits about him when other people got theirs scattered. Ah, good boy! good boy!" and so on. When I had finished he sank into a reverie, so that he forgot to tell me who Lance was. I had to recall it to his memory. "I have often wished," said I, "to know the name of the gentleman who befriended us in so timely a way, but in the confusion I never asked, and afterwards we found that he had gone away. I don't even know to this day." "Why, bless me, haven't I told you? Lance is my boy, my own boy, my son." "Why, to be sure he is," said I. "Now I know how it is that when you look kind and funny you have reminded me of somebody. Of course the colour is all different, but the expression is the same." "In looks Lance is the image of his dear sainted young mother. But I daresay there is an expression, as you have seen." "Why isn't he with you, then?" said I bluntly. The General lifted his eyes upwards, and again the strange film of suffering came over them. "For five years now," he said, "I have not known if my son is dead or living." "Poor General!" said I stupidly, feeling for the moment as if I too had had a blow. "I deserved my punishment," he went on in a low voice. "I had not then learned to bury my will in the Will. I was a hot-headed, wilful, evil-tempered old man, though even then the Light was leading me. I tried to force my will on the boy, and when he would not have it, for he too had a will of his own and something of a temper, I bade him begone, never thinking he would take me at my word. But he did, and from that hour to this I was alone till you came." "But why don't you ask him to come back?" said I.