"But what's the use of living, and dragging out a dog's existence in that wretched shack of mine, when in a second I can be free from all the trouble."
"Yes, Joe, you may free yourself from the trouble in this life, but is it manly to bring sorrow to others, and bow the heads of your dear ones?"
Joe looked up. "No one cares for me," he said, half-defiantly.
"No one? Think again. Didn't you tell me that your father and mother were living alone on a little farm back in Ontario, and that you, their youngest child, were the last to leave the old home?"
"Yes."
"Joe," Keith spoke quietly, but with intense earnestness, "they are poor and lonely. Day by day they toil long and hard. What comforts have they in life? They sit alone, side by side, during the winter evenings. They talk of you, think of you, pray for you, and wait some word from you. You, the youngest, the last upon which they bestowed their affection, are much in their thoughts. Isn't that a true picture?"
"My God, it's too true!" broke from the young man's lips.
"Well, then, which will you do, add more trouble to their lives, bow down their poor backs more than ever, and cause them to sit so still through the long evenings, and just wait from day to day for the Master to call; or will you win out here, bear the battle's brunt of gloom and despair, then in the spring make a strike, to go back home rich, to bring joy and comfort to your parents' declining years?"
For a time Joe did not speak. He was struggling hard, for the words were telling upon him. "I never thought of it in that way," he said, at length. "But you have cheered me up a bit, and if I can only stand this winter I think I can win out. It is very lonely in this camp, and a fellow gets so discouraged."
"How would this place do?" asked Keith. "How would you like to spend your evenings here?"