Chapter II

But the weeks became months and the months gathered into years, and after many years even the old professor himself forgot the incident save at such times as the appearance of a man in uniform recalled it to him. At such times he was wont to close his book--his long slim finger marking the place--and let it fall upon his knee, whilst his mind galloped back across the desert of the years to hover an instant about the past's neglected grave.

Perhaps some ray of humor would creep in and part the clouds and the old professor's smile would reflect the glint of sunshine deeper in his heart. Then he would shake his head and sigh and open the book again, following the lines as he read, with that long, slim forefinger.

"A dream--a dream," he would murmur and forget.

And for a long time the memories of the dead days would sleep in his quiet mind.

He dwelt in peace in the midst of an active warring world; the peace that is the man's who feels that he has done his part, his little share, in making his world better. He knew his work was ended, that his time for rest had come, and knowing this he was satisfied to creep noiselessly and unnoticed into a dingy, unfrequented corner and there, with a book or two, a ream of pure white paper and a pen, to spend the time allowed him in the sweet society of his books.

Unhappy, you ask, this frail old man into whose thick hair the years had sprinkled many snowflakes?

All about him there was none happier.

Had you asked _him_, he would have said, no doubt, with that pale little smile of his:

"I have my books. I live well. I have my room. I have my bed. I have my meals--and some of them I prepare myself. And I have a friend. Could a man ask more? As I grow older I find myself agreeing more and more with David Thoreau, who, you will remember, once said, as he passed a tool box standing beside a railway, that he could not understand why a man should want a better home than such a box would make."

And he would laugh with himself at the philosophic quip.

His friend in his later years was another old man; not a scholar, but a man who had worked hard and lived hard, and at sunset took his rest. He too, had many graces.

On Sunday afternoons whenever the weather would permit the old professor sought him out and they walked afield, or by the river where the old professor had loved to wander as a boy. If their path were barricaded by a turnstile it always meant a lengthy parley as to whom should cross it first.

"After you, my friend," the old professor would say, bowing low.

Lifting a protesting hand, "No," the other would respond, "after you."

"I insist," the old professor would contend.

The other would indicate the turnstile with a gesture. "You first," he would repeat.

And so they would stand there bowing, insisting, until, neither seeing fit to give way, they would retrace their steps and seek a path that had no turnstile.

But once, filled with zeal to explore the wood beyond a certain stile, an ingenious plan occurred to the old professor which was immediately carried to a successful issue. Both clambered over the fence at one side of the opening and proceeded on their way.

And for a long time after each held the incident as a joke against the other.

The conversation of the friends on such occasions was of the life that lay before them, serious; never of the past. And they agreed in their philosophy at all points. They never argued.

"Well, friend," the old professor said one day, "when the time comes for us to go I hope we may go together--may continue our walk."

"I hope we may," the other answered.

"I have always thought," the old professor added with a twinkle in his eyes, "that there must be many a pleasant walk in heaven--after one has left the pavement."