"A gentleman wishes to see you," she said.
The sufferer turned his wasted face toward Lyman and asked him to sit down. Then followed a few words of explanation.
"I am very glad you came," said Hillit, speaking slowly and with effort. "We have been getting your paper for some time and it has been great company for us. The neighbors have been very kind, but when a man hangs on this way he wears everybody out."
The woman had left the room, and Lyman was relieved to find that she had not remained to hear her husband's hopeless words. "You ought not to feel that way," he said.
The consumptive withdrew his wistful gaze from the bar of sunlight that lay across the window sill, and looked at Lyman. "I am in a position to say what I think, and that's what I do think," he answered. "But I do hope it won't be much longer. I see by the paper that the farmers have been praying for rain. I have been praying for light, light, light—all the time praying for light. When a passing cloud hides the sun my heart grows heavier, and when the night comes I feel the shadow of eternity resting cold upon me."
In reply to this Lyman could say nothing; he simply said: "You haven't lived here long, I understand."
"Not long. I came from the city to look for a place where I could die cheap. I lost my place—my brethren lost their place—we were swept away by the machine. I am a compositor."
"Oh, are you? Then I am more than glad I came."
"And I am more than glad to see you. I have seen you stop at the fence, and I managed one day to learn your name. You are making a name for yourself; I have read your work at night and there is sunlight in it. Ah, the old craft is gone," he said. "We sang like crickets, laughing at the idea that a frost might come in the shape of a machine to set type; we worked three days a week and spent our money, with no thought of the destroyer slowly forming fingers of steel under the lamp light. But the machine came. It was like the bursting of a shell, and our army, the most intelligent body of craftsmen ever known, was scattered over the face of the land. Once in a while I had a serious moment, and I kept up my life insurance, but what is to become of the other women and children the Lord only knows."
"The picturesque old philosopher known as the tramp printer is only a memory now," said Lyman. "I have seen him strolling along the road, sore of foot, stubble-faced, almost ragged, hungry, but with a cynical head full of contempt for the man of regular habits. I recall one particularly—Barney Caldwell."