rinking," said David, warming to the talk. "I
remember when the grapes of this vintage were picked; I was a boy,
then."

"I believe it," answered Connor solemnly, and he raised the cup with a
reverent hand, so that the sun filtered into the red and filled the
liquid with dancing points of light.

"It is a full twenty years old."

"It is twenty-five years old," said David calmly, "and this is the best
vintage in ten years." He sighed. "It is now in its perfect prime and
next year it will not be the same. You shall help me finish the stock,
Benjamin."

"You need not urge me," smiled Connor.

He shook his head again.

"But that is one wine I could have vowed I knew--Medoc. At least, I can
tell you the soil it grows in."

The brows of the host raised; he began to listen intently.

"It is a mixture of gravel, quartz and sand," continued Connor.

"True!" exclaimed David, and looked at his guest with new eyes.

"And two feet underneath there is a stone for subsoil which is a sort of
sand or fine gravel cemented together."

David struck his hands together, frankly delighted.

"This is marvelous," he said, "I would say you have seen the hills."

"I paid a price for what I know," said Connor rather gloomily. "But
north of Bordeaux in France there is a strip of land called the
Medoc--the finest wine soil in the world, and there I learned what
claret may be--there I tasted Chateau Lafite and Chateau Datour. They
are both grown in the commune of Pauillac."

"France?" echoed David, with the misty eyes of one who speaks of a lost
world. "Ah, you have traveled?"

"Wherever fine horses race," said Connor, and turned back to the
chicken.

"Think," said David suddenly, "for five years I have lived in silence.
There have been voices about me, but never mind; and now you here, and
already you have taken me at a step halfway around the world.

"Ah, Benjamin, it is possible for an emptiness to be in a manlike
hunger, you understand, and yet different--and nothing but a human voice
can fill the space."

"Have you no wish to leave your valley for a little while and see the
world?" said Connor, carelessly.

He watched gloomily, while an expression of strong distaste grew on the
face of David. He was still frowning when he answered:

"We will not speak of it again."

He jerked his head up and cleared away his frown with an effort.

"To speak with one man in the Garden--that is one thing," he
went on, "but to hear the