vials of wrath!  There were matters of quarrel:  well, let the quarrel come!  The supreme matter, unknown and undreamed of by the philosopher opposite him, would sleep secure beneath the uproar over little things.  He craved the open quarrel.  It would be easier after the storm.  The air would be cleared, though by forces that were dire, and he could go more easily through the forest when he had laid the trees low.  It was better to hurry over the bared plain towards the shining goal than to stumble and be deterred amid these snares of old memories, habits, affections, and gratitudes.  The past—­the past was man’s enemy.  He was committed to the future, and in order to serve that strong master there was work—­disagreeable work—­to be done in the present.  Ingratitude!—­that, too, was but a word, though a long one.  He was willing to deceive himself, and so ideas and images came at his bidding, but they hung his path with false lights, and they served, not him, but his inward foe.

He spoke abruptly.  “That Militia Bill,—­the matter did not approve itself to my reason, and so I could not push it through.  I understood, of course, at the time that you were vexed—­”

“I should not say that ‘vexed’ was the word.  I was surprised.  You will do me the justice to acknowledge that I cheerfully accepted the explanation which you gave me.  You are fully aware that I, of all men, would be the last to deny your right—­any man’s right—­of private judgment.  All this was last winter, and might have been buried out of sight.”

“I have heard that a letter of mine in the Enquirer gave you umbrage.  It was my opinion that the country’s honour demanded less milk and water, less supineness in our dealings with England, and I expressed my opinion—­”

“The country’s honour!  That expression of your opinion placed you among the critics of the administration, and that at an hour when every friend was needed.  It came without warning, and if it was meant to wound me, it succeeded.”

Rand moved restlessly.  “It was not,” he said sombrely; “it was not meant to wound you, sir.  Let me, once for all, sitting in this room amid the shades of so many past kindnesses, utterly disavow any personal feeling toward you other than respect and gratitude.  It was apparent to me that the letter must be written, but I take God to witness that I regretted the necessity.”

“The regret,” answered the other, “will doubtless, in the sight of the Power you invoke, justify the performance.  Well, the nine days’ wonder of the letter is long over!  A man in public life cannot live sixty years without suffering and forgiving many a similar stab.  The letter was in February.  Afterwards—­”

“I ceased to write to you.  Through all the years in which I had written, we had been in perfect accord.  Now I saw the rift between us, and that it would widen, and I threw no futile bridges.”