“I knew you 'd say so, poor fellow!” said the youth, affectionately; “you accept the rubs of life as cheerfully as I take them with impatience. But, after all, this is matter of temperament too. You can forgive,—I love better to resist.”
“Mine is the better philosophy, though,” said Billy, “since it will last one's lifetime. Forgiveness must dignify old age, when your virtue of resistance be no longer possible.”
“I never wish to reach the time when I may be too old for it,” said the boy, passionately.
“Hush! don't say that. It's not for you to determine how long you are to live, nor in what frame of mind years are to find you.” He paused, and there was a long unbroken silence between them.
“I have been at the post,” said the youth, at last, “and found that letter, which, by the Neapolitan postmark, must have been despatched many weeks since.”
Billy Traynor took up the letter, whose seal was yet unbroken, and having examined it carefully, returned it to him, saying, “You did n't answer his last, I think?”
“No; and I half hoped he might have felt offended, and given up the correspondence. What have we to do with ambassadors or great ministers, Billy? Ours is not the grand highway in life, but the humble path on the mountain side.”
“I'm content if it only lead upwards,” said the sick man; and the words were uttered firmly, but with the solemn fervor of prayer.