"Very kind of you to call, I'm sure," said Mr. Friend, when his daughter had gone. "Don't tell her yet, for I may be wrong; but I'm very much afraid 'tis all up with me. 'Tis awful deep in me. I got properly wetted two days ago, and went to sleep afore the fire."
"Where there's life there's hope," said Mr. Norseman. "But you're wise to face it. I wish you'd been more of a church-worshipper, Friend."
"Well, well. I've worked hard and tried to do my duty."
"But more goes to life than that. What are man's days without faith? Here you've lived for years, more like a wild savage of the woods than a devout Christian. I wish you'd planned your life wiser, Friend, I do indeed."
"So do I. So do all. So will yourself, when you'm down."
"As to that, I think I can look forward in hope. But you—you see, you put this life first always. Your thoughts ran upon making a fortune out of fuel in this world. You never thought about making a fortune in the next, I'm afraid."
Gregory laughed painfully.
"Plenty of free fuel where you think I'm going," he said.
Mr. Norseman was hurt.
"You ought not to jest about a sacred subject—never—and least of all at a time like this," he answered. "You're wise to face it—as we all should—but not in a ribald spirit. Don't die with a jest on your lips, Gregory Friend."