Through the window he heard the voices of Mack and Amy.
“It is quite unexpected,” David said, opening his eyes. “I'll have to—you have no objection to my speaking to my wife?”
The tinkling of ice in a pitcher sounded at the door.
“By all means, speak to her,” said Mr. Benton, and as 'Thusia tapped David arose and opened the door. 'Thusia entered.
“'Thusia,” David said, “Brother Benton is from the Boulevard Church in Chicago. He wants me to preach there next Sabbath and, if the congregation is satisfied, I may be offered the pulpit.” The color slowly mounted from 'Thusia's throat to her brow. She stood holding the small tin tray, and the glasses trembled against the pitcher. It did not need the figures Mr. Benton reread to tell 'Thusia all the opportunity meant. Mr. Benton ceased, and still 'Thusia stood holding the tray. Her eyes left Mr. Benton's uncouth face and found David's eyes.
“It—it's wonderful, David,” she said steadily, “but of course there's Mack—and Amy!”
So Mr. Benton and the great opportunity went back to Chicago, after a sip or two of 'Thusia's lemonade, and David dropped back into his great chair and his old life of helpfulness, and 'Thusia went out on the porch and smiled at Amy, and they all had lemonade.
From the day Mr. Benton entered David's door Mack never touched the liquor again. It was a year before Amy felt sure enough to let him slip the ring on her finger again, but it was as if David's sacrifice had worked the final cure. Perhaps it did. Perhaps Mack, hearing, as all of us did, of the great chance David had put aside, guessed what none of us guessed—that it was for him David remained in Riverbank. Perhaps that was why, when our church wanted to throw David aside in his old age like a worn-out shoe, Mack Graham fought so hard and successfully to secure for David the honorary title and the pittance.