He controlled himself, and turned to the picture, leaning on his crutch.  I stood by him and gazed too, and I do not think, to save my life, I could have helped asking—­

“Who is he?”

“Your uncle.  Our only brother.  Oh, Bayard, Bayard!”

“Is he dead?”

He nodded, speechless; but somehow I could not forbear.

“What did he die of?”

“Of unselfishness.  He died—­for others.”

“Then he was a hero?  That’s what he looks like.  I am glad he is my godfather.  Dear Uncle Pat, do tell me all about it.”

“Not now—­hereafter.  Nephew, any man—­with the heart of man and not of a mouse—­is more likely than not to behave well at a pinch; but no man who is habitually selfish can be sure that he will, when the choice comes sharp between his own life and the lives of others.  The impulse of a supreme moment only focusses the habits and customs of a man’s soul.  The supreme moment may never come, but habits and customs mould us from the cradle to the grave.  His were early disciplined by our dear mother, and he bettered her teaching.  Strong for the weak, wise for the foolish—­tender for the hard—­gracious for the surly—­good for the evil.  Oh, my brother, without fear and without reproach!  Speak across the grave, and tell your sister’s son that vice and cowardice become alike impossible to a man who has never—­cradled in selfishness, and made callous by custom—­learned to pamper himself at the expense of others!”

I waited a little before I asked—­

“Were you with him when he died?”

“I was.”

“Poor Uncle Patrick!  What did you do?”

He pegged away to the sofa, and threw himself on it.

“Played the fool.  Broke an arm and a thigh, and damaged my spine, and—­lived.  Here rest the mortal remains.”

And for the next ten minutes, he mocked himself, as he only can.

* * * * *

One does not like to be outdone by an uncle, even by such an uncle; but it is not very easy to learn to live like Godfather Bayard.

Sometimes I wish my grandmother had not brought up her sons to such a very high pitch, and sometimes I wish my mother had let that unlucky name become extinct in the family, or that I might adopt my nickname.  One could live up to Backyard easily enough.  It seems to suit being grumpy and tyrannical, and seeing no further than one’s own nose, so well.

But I do try to learn unselfishness; though I sometimes think it would be quite as easy for the owl to learn to respect the independence of a mouse, or a cat to be forbearing with a sparrow!

I certainly get on better with the others than I used to do; and I have some hopes that even my father’s godmother is not finally estranged through my fault.

Uncle Patrick went to call on her whilst he was with us.  She is very fond of “that amusing Irishman with the crutch,” as she calls him; and my father says he’ll swear Uncle Patrick entertained her mightily with my unlucky entertainment, and that she was as pleased as Punch that her cockatoo was in the thick of it.