"Ah! Then you remember me?"

"Certainly! I remember all men, friend or foe. You have been more the former than the latter. Therefore the remembrance is quite distinct."

Hearing the sound of his master's voice, untinged by anger, the collie evidently decided that the newcomer was no enemy, and strolling off a short distance, turned thrice, and lay down, resting his nose between his two forepaws, and eying the twain, awaited developments.

"I am glad that you have pleasant recollections of our brief acquaintance. But now, will you explain what you mean by saying that you are not Leon Grath. I thought that Grath was your name?"

"So did I, Doctor, but I have learned that I was mistaken. I was with Margaret Grath when she died, and she told me----" He paused.

"She told you what?" asked Dr. Medjora, with apparent eagerness.

"That Grath is not my name."

"What then is it? Did she tell you that?"

"No! I am Leon, the nameless!"

There was a touch of bitterness in Leon's voice, and, as he felt a slight difficulty in enunciation caused by rising emotions, he turned away his head and gazed into the deepest part of the wood, closing his jaws tight together, and straining every muscle of his body to high tension, in his endeavor to regain full control of himself. Dr.

Medjora observed the inward struggle for mastery of self, and admired the youth for his strength of character. Without, however, betraying that he had noticed anything, he said quietly:

"What will you do about it?"

"I will make a name for myself," was the reply given, with sharp decisiveness of tones, and a smile played around the corners of Leon's mouth, as though the open a.s.sertion of his purpose was a victory half won.

Oh, the springtime of our youth! The young man climbs to the top of the first hill, and, gazing off into his future, sees so many roads leading to fortune, that he hesitates only about the choice, not deeming failure possible by any path. But, presently, when his chosen way winds up the mountain-side, growing narrower and more difficult with every setting sun, at length he realizes the difference between expectation and fulfilment. But Leon was now on the top of his first hill, and climbing mountains seemed so brave a task that he was eager to begin. Therefore, he spoke boldly. Almost at once he met his first check.

"You will make a name for yourself!" repeated Dr. Medjora. "How? Have you decided?"

Leon felt at once confronted with the task which he had set himself.

Now, the truth was that he had decided upon his way in life; or, rather, I should say he had chosen, and, having made his choice, he considered that he had decided the matter permanently. Yet, the first man who questioned him, caused him to doubt the wisdom of his choice, to hesitate about speaking of it, and to feel diffident, so that he did not answer promptly. Dr. Medjora watched him closely, and spoke again.

"Ah, I see; you think of becoming an author."

"How did you know that?" asked Leon, quickly, very much perplexed to find his secret guessed.

"Then it is a fact? You would not ask me how I know it, were it not true. I will answer your question, though it is of slight consequence.

You are evidently a young man of strong will-power, and yet you became awkwardly diffident when I asked you what path in life you had elected to follow. I have observed that diffidence is closely allied to a species of shame, and that both are invariable symptoms of budding authorship. To one of your temperament, I should say that these feelings would come only from two causes, secret authorship and love.

The latter being out of consideration, the former became a self-evident fact."

"Dr. Medjora, you seem to be a logician, and I should think that you might be a successful author yourself."

"I might be, but I am not. I could be, only I do not choose to be. But we are speaking of yourself. If you wish to be a writer, I presume that you have written something. Does it satisfy you; that is to say, do you consider that it is as excellent as it need be?"

"I have done a little writing. While thinking, this week, about my future, somehow there came to me a longing to write. I did so, and I have been over my little sketch so many times, that I cannot see wherein it is faulty. Therefore, I must admit, however conceited it may sound, that I am satisfied with it."

"That is a very bad sign. When a man is satisfied with his own work he has already reached the end of his abilities. It is only continual dissatisfaction with our efforts, that ever makes us ambitious to attain better things. You have said that, in your opinion, I could be a successful writer. Then let me read and judge what you have written.

You have it with you, I suppose?"

Leon was much embarra.s.sed. He wished that he could say no, but the composition was in his pocket. So he drew it out and handed it to Dr.

Medjora, without saying a word. The Doctor glanced at it a moment and then said encouragingly:

"There is a quality in this, as excellent as it is rare. Brevity."

"Ah, Doctor!" said Leon, eagerly. "That is what I have aimed at. I have but a single idea to expound, and I have endeavored to clothe it in as few words as possible. Or, rather, I should say, I have tried to make every word count. Please read it with that view uppermost."

The Doctor nodded a.s.sent, and then read the little story, which was as follows:

IMMORTALITY.

I am dead!

Have you ever experienced the odd sensation of being present at your own funeral, as I am now?

Impossible! For you are alive!

But I? I am dead!

There lies my body, p.r.o.ne and stiff, uncoffined, whilst the grave-digger, by the light of the young moon, turns the sod which is to hide me away forever.

Or so he thinks.

Why should he, a Christian minister, stoop to dig a grave?

Why? Because minister though he be, he is, or was my master; and my murderer.

Murderer did I say? Was it murder to kill a dog?

For only a dog I was; or may I say, I am?

I stupidly tore up one of his sermons, in sport. For this bad, or good deed, my master, in anger, kicked me. He kicked me, and I died.

Was that murder? Or is the word applicable only to Man, who is immortal?

But stay! What is the test of immortality?

The ego says, "I am I," and earns eternity.

Then am I not immortal, since though dead, I may speak the charmed words?

No! For Christianity preaches annihilation to beast, and immortality for Man only. Man, the only animal that murders.

Shall I be proof that Christianity contains a flaw?

Yet view it as you may, here I am, dead, yet not annihilated.

I say here I am, yet where am I?

How is it that I, stupid mongrel that I was, though true and loving friend, as all dogs are; how is it that I, who but slowly caught my master's meaning from his words, now understand his thoughts although he does not speak?

At last I comprehend. I know now where I am. I am within his mind. His eagerness to bury my poor carca.s.s is but born of the desire to drive me thence.