A family holding the social position of Mr. Watrous in New York has no lack of privileges for a son; but there was nothing that gave Herbert the genuine pleasure that he gained by a visit to Nick Ribsam, in his quiet country home in Western Pennsylvania. The pure air, the healthful food, the perfect cooking, the cleanliness that was everywhere, the cheerfulness, the mutual love and confidence, the warm welcome from everyone—these brought to him an enjoyment and satisfaction far beyond what mere wealth can buy.
It was during the early autumn succeeding the incidents told in “The Moose Hunters,” that Herbert paid his second visit to Nick. The latter met him at the railway station, but the delight of welcoming his old friend to his country home was sadly marred by the appearance of Herbert. Beyond a doubt he was in a bad way. He was nearly six feet tall, very slim, with a flushed face, a dragging walk, short breath, and, indeed, with every sign of incipient consumption.
“I know what you are thinking about,” said he, with a wan smile, “but I don’t look any worse than I feel.”
“You do look bad,” replied Nick, as he drove homeward in their old-fashioned carriage. “What does it mean?”
“I hardly know; the doctor says I am growing too fast, have studied too hard, and haven’t had enough exercise. You know I meant to enter Yale this fall and have been boning like the mischief. But I have given up that and postponed college for a year at least, and,” he added with a sigh, “perhaps forever.”
“You mustn’t talk that way,” said Nick, pained beyond expression; “you must stop all study and live outdoors for a few weeks. You have no bad habits, Herbert?”
“None at all, though I may be reaping the penalty of my former foolishness; but I haven’t touched tobacco or alcohol in any form for six months.”
“I see no reason why you should not come out all right in a short time,” added Nick, uttering the wish rather than the belief he felt.