As I was standing there, I leaned forward absent-mindedly on the mantel-piece and placed my head in the palms of my hands in such close proximity to the mirror that the fleshly features and the illusory features touched. I gazed upon my face intently. The sight stirred the most profound depths within me, not for sorrow, not for pity, not for age, not for the changes, but the realization that it was I. Actually I! I, as I _am_. Look at these eyes, even they alone tell the story, a tale of trying to be what I was not to be; of trying to be good and pure and sinless, of wishing for a little success as other men succeed; of wanting a mate. My mate! to be by my side, she who could have steadied my passion, and have grown old as I grew old, she who could have kept me from all these wretched acts and thoughts; and then--then I lost! I slipped; I fell. And this face shows it. These eyes show it. They see failure, utter, bleak, barren failure. The Great Gambler gives us the dice to throw once, and only once. We lose or we win. I lost. Ah God, must I once more be wakeful with hot tears? I think of the men and the women I know--of you--of you; how did the dice come up for you? What have the figures read? As I am gazing thus in the mirror, my eyes wander to the other part of the reflection which shows the darkness of the opposite end of the room, for the lamp is beginning to flicker. Out of that darkness comes a boyish figure, and this new sight makes my eyes nearly start from their sockets. But is he a new figure? He advances a step out of the darkness. He is young and supple, about seventeen. I still have my eyes on him in the mirror. This moment he caught my glance! He steps nearer, keeping my eye and trying to laugh, and yet, oh, how wistful that look really is. “Who the devil are you?” I asked, without turning from the mirror and half closing my eyes in an effort to search his countenance. “Oh, I reckon you know who I am;” he said flippantly, with a Southern accent. “Sit down, won’t you?” I said, without turning around to greet him. And then with impudence he sits himself down in the very chair which I had recently vacated. I still retain my position and watch him in the mirror. Looking up at me, he began again: “No one would think, from the manner in which you recognized me, that we are as closely related as father and son.” “It’s a lie,” I answered, calmly, “why do you accuse me with a lie?” “Oh, don’t excite yourself,” he came back, “I am the guilty party. I am the father and you are the son. Certainly you have often heard that the boy is father to the man?” “Aye, and the child, sire to the boy.” “Look at yourself. You are seeing you that are, while I am you that used to be. I reckon you know me now.” I stared again at my misbegotten self in the mirror, the self that is, and I thought upon what had just been uttered by the self that was. A weird truth came to me, and I spoke this thought aloud: