The thoughts which were mine that night—­the sense of how glorious a thing it is to be a man and be loved—­the humility that comes with such a victory as I had gained—­the rapid alternation of happy thoughts and noble resolutions—­what man is there who does not know my whole story better than I can tell it?  I put my nephews to bed; I told them every story they asked for; and when Budge, in saying his prayers, said “an’ bless that nice lady that Uncle Harry ’spects,” I interrupted his devotions with a hearty hug.  The children had been awake so far beyond their usual hour for retiring that they dropped asleep without giving any special notice of their intention to do so.  Asleep, their faces were simply angelic.  As I stood, candle in hand, gazing gratefully upon them, I remembered a sadly neglected duty.  I hurried to the library and wrote the following to my sister: 

“Hillcrest, Monday Night.

“Dear Helen:—­I should have written you before had I been exactly certain what to say about your boys.  I confess that until now I have been blind to some of their virtues, and have imagined I detected an occasional fault.  But the scales have fallen from my eyes, and I see clearly that my nephews are angels—­positively angels.  If I seem to speak extravagantly, I beg to refer you to Alice Mayton for collateral evidence.  Don’t come home at all—­ everything is just as it should be—­even if you come, I guess I’ll invite myself to spend the rest of the summer with you; I’ve changed my mind about its being a bore to live out of town and take trains back and forth every day.  Ask Tom to think over such bits of real estate in your neighborhood as he imagines I might like.

“I repeat it, the boys are angels, and Alice Mayton is another, while the happiest man in the white goods trade is

“Your affectionate brother

“Harry.”

Early next morning I sought the society of my nephews.  It was absolutely necessary that I should overflow to some one—­some one who was sympathetic and innocent and pure.  I longed for my sister —­my mother, but to some one I must talk at once.  Budge fulfilled my requirements exactly; he was an excellent listener, very sympathetic by nature, and quick to respond.  Not the wisdom of the most reverend sage alive could have been so grateful to my ear as that child’s prattle was on that delightful morning.  As for Toddie—­blessed be the law of compensation! his faculty of repetition, and of echoing whatever he heard said, caused him to murmur “Miff Mayton, Miff Mayton,” all morning long, and the sound gained in sweetness by its ceaseless iteration.  To be sure, Budge took early and frequent occasions to remind me of my promises of the night before, and Toddie occasionally demanded the promised candy cigar; but these very interruptions only added joy to my own topic of interest each time it was resumed.  The filling of Budge’s orders occupied two or three hours and all the vacant space in the carriage; even then the goat and goat-carriage were compelled to follow behind.