different order of man
from this scheming, selfish politician.

"I can't place you at all, Bruce. Now, I should have thought you would
have been a reformer--worked for humanity--that line, you know. You were a
sensitive lad, like a girl."

"I am quite too warm-hearted a fellow to be a philanthropist," laughed
Neckart. "The philanthropists I know work for principles, liberty,
education and the like: they don't care a damn for the individual Tom and
Jerry. The chances are, that your reformer is a cold-blooded tyrant at
home: he makes a god of his one idea: his god makes him nervous,
ill-conditioned--the last man in the world to choose for a friend or a
husband."

"You amaze me! I should have said that they were the wisest and purest of
men. Next to clergymen, of course. I don't go to church myself, but I
respect the cloth. But speaking of yourself, Bruce, you were a most
affectionate little fellow. Do you remember how you referred every new
idea to your mother? I recollect you told me once that you read your
lessons in your school classics to her to amuse her. You must have cleaned
the translation sometimes to make it fit for her ear."

"Yes."

"And I remember, too," regardless of the sudden silence which had fallen
on his companion, "how you watched my wife making a cap one day--she had
nice fingers in such work, Virginie--and how you saved your money to buy
lace and ribbon for her to make your mother a cap; and how anxiously you
sat watching every stitch as it went in, and carried it off triumphantly
when it was done."

"I remember quite well. Mrs. Swendon was very kind to me in the matter."

The captain did not reply: he glanced at Neckart with sudden alarm. What
was it that he had heard of Bruce's mother? Some wretched story that came
out at the time of her death: had she committed a crime or gone mad? He
could not recall it, but something in the silence of his companion told
him that he had blundered. He began to smoke violently in contrition of
soul, and remained silent, while Neckart lay still in the sand, his hands
clasped behind his head, looking at the surf.

It was not the surf he saw.

It was that little silly cap which he had held on his boy's chapped fist
delighted and proud. Twenty years ago! He had earned the money to buy it
by work after the other boys in the shop had gone home. He could see the
very pattern now that was worked in the lace, and the ribbon--a pale blue,
just the color of his mo