had read a little in
these pages, I saw that they were no mere record of day-to-day life;
evidently finding himself unable to forego altogether the use of the pen,
the veteran had set down, as humour bade him, a thought, a reminiscence,
a bit of reverie, a description of his state of mind, and so on, dating
such passage merely with the month in which it was written. Sitting in
the room where I had often been his companion, I turned page after page,
and at moments it was as though my friend's voice sounded to me once
more. I saw his worn visage, grave or smiling; recalled his familiar
pose or gesture. But in this written gossip he revealed himself more
intimately than in our conversation of the days gone by. Ryecroft had
never erred by lack of reticence; as was natural in a sensitive man who
had suffered much, he inclined to gentle acquiescence, shrank from
argument, from self-assertion. Here he spoke to me without restraint,
and, when I had read it all through, I knew the man better than before.

Assuredly, this writing was not intended for the public, and yet, in many
a passage, I seemed to perceive the literary purpose--something more than
the turn of phrase, and so on, which results from long habit of
composition. Certain of his reminiscences, in particular, Ryecroft could
hardly have troubled to write down had he not, however vaguely,
entertained the thought of putting them to some use. I suspect that, in
his happy leisure, there grew upon him a desire to write one more book, a
book which should be written merely for his own satisfaction. Plainly,
it would have been the best he had it in him to do. But he seems never
to have attempted the arrangement of these fragmentary pieces, and
probably because he could not decide upon the form they should take. I
imagine him shrinking from the thought of a first-person volume; he would
feel it too pretentious; he would bid himself wait for the day of riper
wisdom. And so the pen fell from his hand.

Conjecturing thus, I wondere