We do not belong to the past generation, but to the acting, working, living present.  Our juniors are the rising generation, and no one belongs to the past except those who have laid aside the burden of life—­light to some, wearisome to others—­forever.  They are the only ones who have any excuse for stepping out of the ranks.  They have done so by their Captain’s order.  Let us, who remain, stand bravely in our places, that we may be present or accounted for when the roll-call containing our names is read.

CHAPTER XXV.

TRUTH-TELLING.

“Conformity to fact or reality.  Exact accordance with that which is, has been, or shall be.”

I looked up Webster’s definition of Truth yesterday, after overhearing a conversation between two girls in the horse-car.  They spoke so loudly that not to hear would have been an impossibility.  My attention was first attracted to them by the name of a friend.

“Did you know of Mr. B.’s illness?” asked the younger and more pronounced colloquist.

“Yes,” responded the other; “I know he has had pneumonia, but I understand that he is now convalescent.”

“Oh, then, you haven’t heard the latest!”

The discovery of her companion’s ignorance acted upon the girl like magic.  She became vivacious, and beamed with the glow of satisfaction kindled by the privilege of being the first to relate a morsel of news.

“Well, my dear!  Mamma and I were calling there, and while I was talking to Miss B., I heard Mrs. B. tell my mother this awful thing.  You know Mr. B.’s sister is a trained nurse (I never did believe in trained nurses!) and when he was taken so ill they sent for her to come and take care of him.  She got along tolerably well until a few days ago when the doctor prescribed quinine for Mr. B. By mistake, she gave him ten grains of morphine.”

“What!”

“Yes, my dear, she did!  It seems like an immense quantity, but, as I wanted to be accurate (I always say that accuracy is a Christian duty), I asked Miss B. how many grains her father took, and she said ‘Ten!’ Well! the poor victim slept thirty hours, and they were so frightened that they sent for the doctor.  He said that, fortunately, no harm was done, but that it was an unpardonable piece of carelessness.  They discharged the nurse forthwith.  She ought to have been arrested and punished,—­not turned loose upon a confiding community.”

“Yet you say she is his own sister?”

“Yes, indeed! and the family have always been perfectly devoted to her!  But they have sent her to the right-about now.  It is too bad!  A family row is such an unfortunate thing.  They may be thankful not to have a murder-case to deal with!”

Strangely enough, I was en route for the house of my friend, Mrs. B., and as the car, at this juncture, crossed the street on which she lived, I motioned to the conductor to ring the bell, and alighted before hearing more of that remarkable tale.  Being acquainted with the whole matter as it actually occurred, I was amused and indignant, as well as curious, to learn how this girl had received the wretchedly garbled version of an affair, the facts of which were these: