"Well said, and well remembered. Yet you are a magistrate, custos rotulorum"--Mr. Hart laughed at the remembrance of the labourer--"and I--well, I am something very like a vagabond. Look at my patched clothes--see my wealth." He pulled out of his pocket all the money he had in the world, amounting to less than twenty pounds, and counted it over half merrily and half wistfully. "If you knew how precious these bits of gold are to me, Richard, you would wonder."
"I wonder as it is, Gerald."
"Well you may. Do you think I care for this dross for my own sake? Thank God, no! But lately--only within these last few weeks--I have grown to know the pitiless power of money, and to thirst for it!"
"I will help you, Gerald," said Mr. Weston, strongly moved by his friend's passion; "I will help you."
"It is for my daughter," murmured Mr. Hart, "not for myself; for my daughter, dearer to me than my blood, than my life! Let me but see her happy, and and sheltered from storms, and I can say good-bye to the world with a smile on my lips."
They were standing now by the side of the grave with fresh flowers about it. A plain tombstone was raised above it, with the simple inscription:
To the Memory of
CLARA.
Love sweetens all,
Love levels all.
"A good creed," said Mr. Hart, gazing with moistened eyes upon the inscription; "truly, love sweetens life, and love, like death, makes all men equal."