Who is that man behind you, who looks such a wonderfully fine fellow?
My Godfather Bayard." I had experienced a shock the night before, but nothing to the shock of seeing Uncle Patrick's face then, and hearing him sob out his words, instead of their flowing like a stream.
"Is it possible?
Ye don't know?
She can't speak of him yet?
Poor Geraldine!" He controlled himself, and turned to the picture, leaning on his crutch.

I stood by him and gazed too, and I do not think, to save my life, I could have helped asking-- "Who is he ?" "Your uncle.

Our only brother.

Oh, Bayard, Bayard!" "Is he dead ?" He nodded, speechless; but somehow I could not forbear.
"What did he die of ?" "Of unselfishness.

He died--for others." "Then he _was_ a hero?
That's what he looks like.