"His will leaves everything to his wife, I believe," Henry remarked.
"Yes, with the proviso that at her death it is to go to Mrs. Brooks. Brooks has already taken Colton's place in the store, and now the question is, Who can fill Brooks' place?"
"I don't think you will have any trouble in filling it," Henry replied. "No matter who drops out, the affairs of this life go on just the same. A man becomes so identified with a business that people think it couldn't be run without him. He dies, and the business—improves."
"Yes, it appears so," Witherspoon admitted; "but what I wanted to get at, coming straight to the point, is this: I need you now more than ever before. One of the penalties of wealth is that a rich man is forced constantly to fumble about in the dark, feeling for some one whose touch may inspire confidence. That's the position I'm in."
"You make a strong appeal," said Henry, "far stronger than any personal advantages you could point out to me."
"But is it strong enough to move you?"
"It might be strong enough to move me to a sacrifice of myself, and still fail to draw me into a willingness to risk the opinion you have expressed of what you term my manliness. As a business man I know that I should be a failure, and then I'd have your pity instead of your good opinion. Let me tell you that I am a very ordinary man. I haven't the quickness which is a business man's enterprise, nor that judgment which is his safeguard. My newspaper is a success, but it is mainly because I have a capable man in the business office. It grieves me to disappoint you, and I will take an oath that if I felt myself capable I'd cheerfully give up journalism and place myself at your service."
"Father," said Mrs. Witherspoon—and anxiously she had been watching her husband—"I don't see what more he could say."
"He has said quite enough," Witherspoon replied.
"But you are not angry, are you, papa?" Ellen asked.