"No. You have the gift of words, but you haven't started to create yet. Go to it; and the best of luck!"
He went out. This farewell had been particularly distasteful to him. There was still in his heart that fierce anger which demands physical expression; but he had to consider Ruth in all phases. He proceeded to the deck, where Ruth and McClintock were waiting for him by the ladder. He handed Ruth a letter.
"What is this?" she wanted to know.
"A hundred dollars which was left from your husband's money."
"Would you be angry if I offered it to you?"
"Very. Don't worry about me."
"You are the kindest man I have ever known," said Ruth, unashamed of her tears. "I have hurt you because I would not trust you. It is useless to talk. I could never make you understand."
Almost the identical words of the boy. "Will you write," asked the doctor, "and tell me how you are getting along?"
"Oh, yes!"
"The last advice I can give you is this: excite his imagination; get him started with his writing. Remember, some day you and I are going to have that book." He patted her hand. "Good-bye, Mac. Don't forget to cut out all effervescent water. If you will have your peg, take it with plain water. You'll be along next spring?"