Imagination is a humorous fellow—he must have his joke. He made me interested in things dramatic; he advised the purchase of everything I could hear of on the subject—text-books, essays. I bought two hundred plays, and he and I went to the theatre every evening at eight, and attended matinées on Saturday at two. Just one play each evening, and after the curtain fell we talked it over and criticised—we analyzed those two hundred plays—Imagination and I. We laughed at costume comedies, studied the plays of social life—from Sheridan to Fitch—and delved for motives in the modern problem plays; watched Mansfield, Drew, and Sothern in all their rôles. Over Cyrano de Bergerac and L’Aiglon we poured the tribute of a tear to Rostand’s genius. And then (how did he keep from laughing in my face?) Imagination egged me on into writing plays—many of them. If he made me think the “actable,” he well deserved the name. It was all my own fault: the smoke from my older friend often got up into my eyes and warned me. This old pipe of mine played the cynic and was perfectly frank about my dramas. But I wouldn’t listen. I blundered on until I found a “_fidus Achates_” to help and guide me. Together we hope to restrain this strenuous fellow a little. * * * * * It’s all over now. My pipe, Imagination, and a faithful friend, I have found them all, and I “found _myself_” in the Death-Chamber. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _CHAPTER XXII_ _The Last Story_ This is the story I can never tell, yet will spend all the rest of my life in telling—but how hopelessly. I cannot even think of it without something coming up into my throat to choke me. It is about my love for the soldier father, and the mother almost divine, who have suffered with and for me. I can no more express this emotion than the sorrow they have borne for me can be told. Ah, but both are written—written in the deeper lines upon their dear faces, and illustrated in their grayer hairs; while how and why I love them, is imprinted eternally upon my heart. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _CHAPTER XXIII—APPENDIX_ _“The Story of the Ring”_ _By Vance Thompson_ _(By the courtesy of the New York “Journal”)_ It was bludgeon against rapier which began yesterday; it was the battle-axe against the stiletto; it was Osborne against Molineux; and Molineux won.