One bird fluttered like a loosened leaf from one tree to another,
and his brown feathers were brushed with fire.

"Inglewood," said Michael Moon, with his blue eye on the bird,
"have you any friends?"

Dr. Warner mistook the person addressed, and turning a broad
beaming face, said,--

"Oh yes, I go out a great deal."

Michael Moon gave a tragic grin, and waited for his real informant,
who spoke a moment after in a voice curiously cool, fresh and young,
as coming out of that brown and even dusty interior.

"Really," answered Inglewood, "I'm afraid I've lost touch with
my old friends. The greatest friend I ever had was at school,
a fellow named Smith. It's odd you should mention it, because I
was thinking of him to-day, though I haven't seen him for seven
or eight years. He was on the science side with me at school--
a clever fellow though queer; and he went up to Oxford when I
went to Germany. The fact is, it's rather a sad story.
I often asked him to come and see me, and when I heard nothing I
made inquiries, you know. I was shocked to learn that poor Smith
had gone off his head. The accounts were a bit cloudy, of course,
some saying that he had recovered again; but they always say that.
About a year ago I got a telegram from him myself. The telegram,
I'm sorry to say, put the matter beyond a doubt."

"Quite so," assented Dr. Warner stolidly; "insanity is generally incurable."