“No; I had forwarded letters and held proof that could not be disputed.  The mystery was cleared up.”

“How old are you?”

“I shall be twenty-five next—­next”—­

“December the fourteenth,” Witherspoon answered for him.

“The truth is,” said Henry, “uncle did not remember the exact date of my birth.”

“Was your uncle a man of means?”

“Well, I can hardly say that he was.  He speculated considerably, and though he was never largely successful, yet he always managed to live well.”

“Were you engaged in any sort of employment?”

“Yes, at different times I was a reporter.”

“It is not necessary that the public should know all this,” said Witherspoon.

“But we can’t help it,” Henry replied.  “The statement we sent out would simply serve to hone and strap public curiosity to a keen edge.  I expected something of this sort.  The only thing to do is to get through with it as soon as we can.”

When the interview was ended Henry went to the front door with the reporters, and at parting said to them:  “I hope to see you again, gentlemen, and doubtless I shall.  I am one of you.”

At dinner that evening Witherspoon was in high spirits.  He joked—­a recreation rare with him—­and he told a story—­a mental excursion of marked uncommonness.

“What, Henry, don’t you drink wine at all?” the merchant asked.

“No, sir, I stand in mortal fear of it.”  The vision of a drunken painter, he always fancied, hung like a fog between him and the liquor glass.

“It’s well enough, my son.”

“None of the Craigs were drunkards,” said Ellen, giggling.

“Ellen,” Mrs. Witherspoon solemnly enjoined, “my mother’s people shall not be made sport of.  It is true that there were no drunkards among them.  And why?”

“Because none of them got drunk, I should think,” Henry ventured to suggest.

“That, of course, was one reason, my son, but the main reason was that they knew how to govern themselves.”

The evening flew away with music and with talk of a long ago made doubly dear by present happiness.  The hour was growing late.  Witherspoon and Henry sat in the library, smoking.  Ellen had gone to her room to draft a form for the invitation to Henry’s reception, and Mrs. Witherspoon was on a midnight prowl throughout the house, and although knowing that everything was right, yet surprised to find it so.

“Now, my boy,” said the merchant, “we will talk business.  Your mother, and particularly your sister, thought it well for me to make you an allowance, and while I don’t object to the putting of money aside for you, yet I should rather have you feel the manliness which comes of drawing a salary for services rendered.  That is more American.  You see how useful Brooks has made himself.  Now, why can’t you work yourself into a similar position?  In the future, the charge of the entire establishment may devolve upon you.  All that a real man wants is a chance, and such a chance as I now urge upon you falls to the lot of but few young men.  Had such an opportunity been given to me when I was young, I should have regarded myself as one specially favored by the partial goddess of fortune.”