"Small enough so that it can go wherever I go."
He made no promises. His way was to wait until the time came and then let the performance speak.
Not three weeks later it came: a sketch in oils, head and shoulders, ten inches by twelve, not at all the cold greenish grays I had anticipated from his habitual attitude of self-effacement, but on the contrary a scheme of rich golden browns. He has painted his own portrait with the same reticence which looks out of its eyes. Strangers seeing it remark,
"What a striking face!"
His friends view it and say,
"He was much finer looking than that."
IX
The rest is seen dimly, as through a mist. His voice is heard, distinct and clear, but as from a great distance.
To Ralph Heard he writes from Camp Lee, Virginia: