“But now I see—that is not my work. May be it is Mary’s. May be it’s my little girl’s.”
“Or mine,” murmured the Doctor.
“Yes, Doctor, I’ve been lying here to-day thinking of something I never thought of before, though I dare say you have, often. There could be no art of healing till the earth was full of graves. It is by shipwreck that we learn to build ships. All our safety—all our betterment—is secured by our knowledge of others’ disasters that need not have happened had they only known. Will you—finish my mission?” The sick man’s hand softly grasped the hand that lay upon it. And the Doctor responded:—
“How shall I do that, Richling?”
“Tell my story.”
“But I don’t know it all, Richling.”
“I’ll tell you all that’s behind. You know I’m a native of Kentucky. My name is not Richling. I belong to one of the proudest, most distinguished families in that State or in all the land. Until I married I never knew an ungratified wish. I think my bringing-up, not to be wicked, was as bad as could be. It was based upon the idea that I was always to be master, and never servant. I was to go through life with soft hands. I was educated to know, but not to do. When I left school my parents let me travel. They would have let me do anything except work. In the West—in Milwaukee—I met Mary. It was by mere chance. She was poor, but cultivated and refined; trained—you know—for knowing, not doing. I loved her and courted her, and she encouraged my suit, under the idea, you know, again,”—he smiled faintly and sadly,—“that it was nobody’s business but ours. I offered my hand and was accepted. But, when I came to announce our engagement to my family, they warned me that if I married her they would disinherit and disown me.”
“What was their reason, Richling?”
“Nothing.”
“But, Richling, they had a reason of some sort.”