"It is too late—I am not going to get well. I am sure the doctor thinks I cannot," he wearily returned.
"Simply because you have no wish to, and will not try; your own attitude is what is sending you to your doom. Don't let this inertia conquer you, John; buckle on your courage, take a fresh grip on hope, and rise above this weakness. There is hardly any situation in life so adverse that it cannot be overcome if one will go to work the right way. Then, think of your talent—it was a divine gift. Can you bear the thought of making no return for it—of leaving absolutely nothing behind you to show that John Hungerford, who was born with the soul of a great artist—you know, Monsieur Jacques told you that—ever lived? Oh, rouse yourself; start out anew, and make your mark in the world!"
Helen had spoken very earnestly, and it was evident that her words had made a deep impression upon her listener, for it was with difficulty that he preserved his composure.
"Do you think I can—now, after all the best of my life has been wasted?" he breathed eagerly, but swallowing hard to keep back a sob that almost got the better of him.
"I am sure you can," she cheerily responded. "Make up your mind, first of all, that you are going to get well; that will be half of the battle won; and, with health and strength regained, the rest will be comparatively easy. I wish——"
She paused suddenly, as if in doubt of the wisdom of what she had been about to say.
"What do you wish?" he inquired, as he keenly searched her thoughtful face.
"I wish you would allow me to bring a dear friend to see you—some one whom I feel sure would be a great help to you."
"Who is this friend?" John demanded, almost sharply, and with suddenly averted face.
"A Mrs. Everleigh—the purest, sweetest woman I have ever known."