"Do you see?" he said to me. "All of them are of boys who gave me their
photographs more than twenty years ago. They were good boys. These are
my souvenirs. When I die, my last glance will be at them; at those
roguish urchins among whom my life has been passed. You will give me
your portrait, also, will you not, when you have finished the elementary
course?" Then he took an orange from his nightstand, and put it in my
hand.
"I have nothing else to give you," he said; "it is the gift of a sick
man."