It was a chromo; a new one, just out.

It was the smirking, self-satisfied portrait of a man who was inundating the Union with advertisements inviting everybody to buy his specialty, which was a three-dollar shoe or a dress-suit or something of that kind.

The old gentleman rested the chromo flat upon his lap and gazed down tenderly upon it, and became silent and meditative.

Presently Tracy noticed that he was dripping tears on it.

This touched the young fellow's sympathetic nature, and at the same time gave him the painful sense of being an intruder upon a sacred privacy, an observer of emotions which a stranger ought not to witness.