d wheeled him back into the corridor. The poet with some
difficulty preserved his footing.

"Jack," he said, endeavoring to be dignified,--"there has been a
misunderstanding for some time between us, but now that you are a man,
all this should cease. I offer you my hand, my child."

Jack shrugged his shoulders. "Of what use are these theatricals between
us, sir? You detest me, and I return the compliment!"

"And since when have we been such enemies, Jack?"

"Ever since we knew each other! My earliest recollection is of absolute
hatred toward you. Besides, why should we not hate each other like the
bitterest of foes? By what other name should I call you? Who and what
are you? Believe me that if ever in my life I have thought of you
without anger, it has never been without a blush of shame."

"It is true, Jack, that our position toward each other has been entirely
false. But, my dear friend, life is not a romance."

But Jack cut short this discourse.

"You are right, sir, life is not a romance: it is, on the contrary, a
very serious and positive matter. In proof of which, permit me to say
that every instant of my time is occupied, and that I cannot lose one
of them in useless discussions. For ten years my mother has been your
slave. All that I suffered in this time my pride will never let you
know. My mother now belongs to me, and I mean to keep her. What do you
want of her? Her hair is gray, and your treatment of her has made great
wrinkles on her forehead. She is no longer a pretty woman, but she is my
mother!"

They looked each other straight in the face as they stood in that
narrow, squalid corridor. It was a fitting frame for a scene so
humiliating.

"You strangely mistake the sense of my words," said the poet, deadly
pale. "I know that your resources must be very moderate; I come, as an
old friend, to see if I can serve you in any way."

"We need nothing. The work of my hands supplies us with all we require."

"You are very proud, my dear Jack; you were not so always."

"That is very true, sir, and also that your presence, that I once was
forced to endure, has now become odious to me."

The attitude of the young man was so determined and so insulting, his
looks so thoroughly carried out his words, that the poet dared not
add one word, and descended the stairs, where his careful costume was
strangely out of place. When Jack heard his last footfall, he returned
to his room: on the threshold stood Ida, s