Long ago, the Hon. Henry Aldis had fallen into the habit of
addressing Dr. Layton, in his letters, by the paternal title.
"It does not seem possible that it is twenty years since I stood here,
saying good-by when I started West. By the way, do you remember what you
told me that memorable night when the lamented Brindle laid down her life
because of my carelessness, and her own gluttony? I was standing at the
horse's head, and you were sitting in your buggy, there at the carriage
steps, and I said I wished you would horsewhip me, instead of treating me
so kindly. I remember you reached over and tickled my neck with the lash
playfully, and told me there was no use in thrashing a fellow who was all
broken up, anyway, over an accident."
The doctor laughed as he held his arms more closely about the shoulders of
Senator Aldis's two eldest boys; while "Grandmother Layton," with little
Ted in her lap, was dreaming again of the little form that had long, long
ago been laid in the graveyard on the hillside.
"Yes, yes," said the doctor, "I remember. What a blessed thing it was I did
not send you off that day to the tune the old cow died on," and he laughed
through his tears.
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