“I wish we could get this cousin of yours to look a little more cheerful. You would think he had quarrelled with the sunshine.”
The carpenter showed his white teeth between his rosy lips.
“Well, sir, if you’ll excuse me, you see my cousin Joe is not like the rest of us. He’s a religious man, is Joe.”
“But I don’t see how that should make him miserable. It hasn’t made me miserable. I hope I’m a religious man myself. It makes me happy every day of my life.”
“Ah, well,” returned the carpenter, in a thoughtful tone, as he worked away gently to get the inside out of the oak-chest without hurting it, “I don’t say it’s the religion, for I don’t know; but perhaps it’s the way he takes it up. He don’t look after hisself enough; he’s always thinking about other people, you see, sir; and it seems to me, sir, that if you don’t look after yourself, why, who is to look after you? That’s common sense, I think.”
It was a curious contrast—the merry friendly face, which shone good-fellowship to all mankind, accusing the sombre, pale, sad, severe, even somewhat bitter countenance beside him, of thinking too much about other people, and too little about himself. Of course it might be correct in a way. There is all the difference between a comfortable, healthy inclination, and a pained, conscientious principle. It was a smile very unlike his cousin’s with which Joe heard his remarks on himself.
“But,” I said, “you will allow, at least, that if everybody would take Joe’s way of it, there would then be no occasion for taking care of yourself.”
“I don’t see why, sir.”
“Why, because everybody would take care of everybody else.”
“Not so well, I doubt, sir.”