sons, and mine be that. But I'd love to end my days settin' in a window
and watchin' folks go by to church."


It was past seven o'clock when we hoisted sail again, and as we drew
near the greater islands a crimson flash shot out over the sea in our
wake. On a dim beach ahead stood a girl waiting.



TWO BOYS.


I daresay they never saw, and perhaps never will see, one another.
I met them on separate railway journeys, and the dates are divided by
five years almost. One boy was travelling third-class, the other first.
The age of each when I made his very slight acquaintance (with the one I
did not even exchange a word) was about fourteen. Almost certainly
their lives and their stories have no connection outside of my thoughts.
But I think of them often, and together. They have grown up; the
younger will be a man by this time; if I met them now, their altered
faces would probably be quite strange to me. Yet the two boys remain my
friends, and that is why I take leave to include them among these
stories of my friends.


I.


The first boy (I never heard his name) was seated in the third-class