He noticed this, and laughed heartily.  “It is natural enough,” he said, “that you should wish to assure yourself that there is a good foundation to your belief in what I have told you; but you are in too great a hurry:  you must wait some years for that sort of proof, one way or the other.  But I believe that you do believe in me, and I am not in the least disturbed by the way you look at me.”

After dinner, on the first day of my visit, when we were smoking together, I asked Mr. Crowder if he would not continue the recital of his experiences, which were of such absorbing interest to me that sometimes I found them occupying my mind to an extent which excluded the consideration of everything relating to myself and the present time.

“From one point of view,” he said, “that would be a bad thing for you:  but I don’t look at it in that way; in fact, I hope you may become my biographer.  I will furnish you with material enough, and you can arrange it and put it in shape; that is, if, in the course of a few years, you consider that, in doing what I ask of you, you will be writing the true life of a man, and not a collection of fanciful stories.  So I hope you may find that you have not lost your time when thinking so much of a man of the past.”

Now, there is no doubt that I did most thoroughly believe in Crowder.  I had argued with myself against this belief to the utmost extent of my ability, and I had now given up the effort.  If I should disbelieve him I would deprive myself of one of the most precious privileges of my existence, and I did not intend to do so until I found myself absolutely forced to admit that I was mistaken.  Time would settle all this, and all that I had to do now was to listen, enjoy, and be thankful for the opportunity.

“I am not going to tell any stories now,” he said, “for my wife has not overcome her dislike to tobacco smoke, and she has insisted that she shall be one of my hearers when I tell stories of my past life to you; but I can tell you this, my friend:  she will believe every word I say; there can be no possible doubt of that.  I have told her a good many things since I saw you last, and her faith in me is a joy unspeakable.”

Of course I was delighted to hear that this charming lady was to be my fellow-auditor, and said so.

“I often think of you two,” said Mr. Crowder, contemplatively leaning back in his arm-chair.  “I think of you together, but I am bound to say that the thought is not altogether pleasant.”  I showed my amazement at this remark.  “It can’t be helped,” he said; “it can’t be helped.  It’s one of the things I have to suffer.  I have suffered it over and over again thousands of times, but I never get used to it.  Here you are, two young people, young enough to be my children:  one is my wife; the other, I am proud to say, my best friend.  You are the only persons in the world who know my story.  You have faith in me, and the thought of that faith is the