"It's no use," the invalid said, adding, half under his breath: "I'm done for."
"Hush!" she interrupted, frowning. "Anybody is done for who has made up his mind that he is."
John Gano shook his head.
"You know we all go like this. It's not a matter of imagination."
"Nearly everything's a matter of imagination," she said.
The gaunt man put his handkerchief to his lips.
"This is imagination, too, I suppose," he said, as he turned the bright spot in and out of sight—"a case of seeing red."
"That small stain means very little in itself," she retorted, seeming scarcely moved; "its effect on your mind is the only thing to be afraid of."
"You speak as though I hadn't inherited the blessed business."
"Oh, inherited—inherited! I'm sick of that white feather showing all along the line. Look at me!"