Picking up the quaint bottle, he passed his hand tenderly over its crusted surface, paused for an instant to examine the cork, and held it closer to the light that he might note its condition. There he stood musing, his mind far away, his fingers caressing its sides. All the aroma of the past; all the splendor of the old regime—all its good-fellowship, hospitality, and courtesy—that which his soul loved—lay imprisoned under his hand. Suddenly one of his old-time quizzical smiles irradiated his face: “By Jove!—just the thing!” he cried joyously, “it will take the place of the one Talbot didn't open!”
With a mighty jerk of the bell cord he awoke the echoes below stairs.
Todd came on the double quick:
“Todd.”
“Yes, Marse George.”
“Todd, here's the last bottle of the 1810. Lay it flat on the top shelf with the cork next the wall. We'll open it at Mr. Harry's wedding.”
[THE END]