"Well, it will be a great professional sacrifice; but I'm willing to make it for a friend like you, and for a patient in whose recovery or improvement I feel so deeply interested."
"Make no sacrifices for me, dear doctor; my poor wreck of life is not worth a sacrifice; I can weather it out a little longer in this region. It requires a stronger air than that of the tropics to restore strength to my poor decayed lungs."
"Yes, but you must not despond," said the doctor.
"No, my boy, you musn't give up. You are too young to die. You are my only son, and I can't spare you." Again Mr. Peterkin turned uneasily in his chair.
"But tell me, doctor," he added, "don't you think he is growin' stronger?"
"Why, yes I do; and if he will consent to go South, I shall have strong hope of him."
"He must consent," exclaimed Mr. Peterkin, with a decided emphasis.
"You know my objection, doctor, yet I cannot oppose my wish against father's judgment; so I will go, but 'twill be without the least expectation of ever again seeing home."
"Oh, don't, don't, my boy," and Mr. Peterkin's voice faltered, and his eyes were very moist.
"Idols of clay!" I thought, "how frail ye are; albeit ye are manufactured out of humanity's finest porcelain, yet a rude touch, a slight jar, and the beautiful fabric is destroyed forever!"