“Another man has tried to make me the lifelong slave of a silver service.  He’d gone down to Fifth Avenue an’ ordered it, an’ I suppose it would ‘a’ cost thousands.  Tried to sneak it on me.  Can ye think o’ anything meaner?  It would ‘a’ cost me a pretty penny for insurance an’ storage the rest o’ my life, an’ then think of our—­ahem—­our poor children!  Why, it would be as bad as a mortgage debt.  Every time I left home I would have worried about that silver service; every time the dog barked at night I would have trembled in my bed for the safety o’ the silver service; every time we had company I would have been afraid that somebody was goin’ to scratch the silver service; an’ when I saw a stranger in town, I would have said to myself:  ’Ah, ha! it may be that he has heard of our silver service an’ has come to steal it.’  I would have begun to regard my servants an’ many other people with dread an’ suspicion.  Why, once I knew a man who had a silver service, an’ they carried it up three nights to the attic every night for fifty years.  They figured that they’d walked eleven hundred miles up an’ down stairs with the silver service in their hands.  The thought that they couldn’t take it with ’em hastened an’ embittered their last days.  Then the heirs learned that it wasn’t genuine after all.

“Of course, I put another injunction upon that man.  ’If we’ve ever done anything to you, forgive us,’ I said, ’but please do not cripple us with gold or silver.’”

He stopped and put his hand upon my shoulder and continued: 

“My young friend, if you would make us a gift, I wish it might be something that will give us pleasure an’ not trouble, something that money cannot buy an’ thieves cannot steal—­your love an’ good wishes to be ours as long as you live an’ we live—­at least.  We shall need no token o’ that but your word an’ conduct.”

I assured him of all he asked for with a full heart.

“Should I come dressed?” was my query.

“Dressed, yes, but not dressed up,” he answered.  “Neither white neckties nor rubber boots will be required.”

“How are Mr. and Mrs. Bill?”

“Happier than ever,” said he.  “Incidentally they’ve learned that life isn’t all a joke, for one of those little brownies led them to the gate of the great mystery an’ they’ve begun to look through it an’ are’ wiser folks.  Two other women are building orphan lodges on their grounds, an’ there’s no tellin’ where the good work will end.”

We were interrupted by the entrance of Miss Betsey Smead.  She was a comely, bustling, cheerful little woman of about forty-five, with a playful spirit like that of Socrates himself.

“This is my financee,” said Socrates.  “She has waited for me twenty-five years.”

“And he kept me waiting—­the wretch!—­just because my grandfather left me his money,” said Miss Betsey.

“I shall never forgive that man,” said Socrates, as he shook his fist at the portrait.  “An’ she was his only grandchild, too.”