I am old and love my ease and sometimes dare to think that I have earned it.  Why do I impose upon myself the task of writing down these memories, searching them and many notes and records with great care so that in every voice and deed the time shall speak?  My first care has been that neither vanity nor pride should mar a word of all these I have written or shall write.  So I keep my name from you, dear reader, for there is nothing you can give me that I want.  I have learned my lesson in that distant time and, having learned it, give you the things I stand for and keep myself under a mask.  These things urge me to my task.  I do it that I may give to you—­my countrymen—­the best fruitage of the great garden of my youth and save it from the cold storage of unknowing history.

It is a bad thing to be under a heavy obligation to one’s self of which, thank God, I am now acquitted.  I have known men who were their own worst creditors.  Everything they earned went swiftly to satisfy the demands of Vanity or Pride or Appetite.  I have seen them literally put out of house and home, thrown neck and crop into the street, as it were, by one or the other of these heartless creditors—­each a grasping usurer with unjust claims.

I remember that Rodney Barnes called for my chest and me that fine morning in early June when I was to go back to the hills, my year’s work in school being ended.  I elected to walk, and the schoolmaster went with me five miles or more across the flats to the slope of the high country.  I felt very wise with that year’s learning in my head.  Doubtless the best of it had come not in school.  It had taken me close to the great stage and in a way lifted the curtain.  I was most attentive, knowing that presently I should get my part.

“I’ve been thinking, Bart, o’ your work in the last year,” said the schoolmaster as we walked.  “Ye have studied six books and one—­God help ye!  An’ I think ye have got more out o’ the one than ye have out o’ the six.”

In a moment of silence that followed I counted the books on my fingers:  Latin, Arithmetic, Algebra, Grammar, Geography, History.  What was this one book he referred to?

“It’s God’s book o’ life, boy, an’ I should say ye’d done very well in it.”

After a little he asked:  “Have ye ever heard of a man who had the Grimshaws?”

I shook my head as I looked at him, not knowing just what he was driving at.

“Sure, it’s a serious illness an’ it has two phases.  First there’s the Grimshaw o’ greed—­swinish, heartless greed—­the other is the Grimshaw o’ vanity—­the strutter, with sword at belt, who would have men bow or flee before him.”

That is all he said of that seventh book and it was enough.

“Soon the Senator will be coming,” he remarked presently.  “I have a long letter from him and he asks about you and your aunt and uncle.  I think that he is fond o’ you, boy.”

“I wish you would let me know when he comes,” I said.