"My friend told me a singular story to-day."
"I don't doubt it; and if his stories are as singular as he is, they must he marvelous."
"This story is marvelous, and I think it would interest you. I will give it to you briefly. There were two young men in a foreign country"—
"I wish he was in a foreign country. I can't wait here all day."
"He'll be here soon. These two friends were on their way to the sea coast, and here's where it will strike you. One of them had been stolen when he was a child, and was now going back to his parents. But before they reached the coast, the rich man's son—as we'll call the one who had been stolen—was stricken with a fever. No ship was in port, and his friend took him to a hotel and got a doctor for him."
"Wish you'd hand me a match," said Witherspoon. "My cigar's out. Thank you."
"Got a doctor for him, but he grew worse. Sometimes he was delirious, but at times his mind was strangely clear; and once, when he was rational, he told his friend that he was going to die. He didn't appear to care very much so far as it concerned himself, but the thought of the grief that his death would cause his parents seemed to lie as a cold weight upon his mind. And it was then that he made a most peculiar request. He compelled his friend to promise to take his name; to go to his home; to be a son to his father and mother. His friend begged, but had to yield. Well, the rich man's son died, we'll suppose, and the poor fellow took his name on the spot. He had to leave hurriedly, for a father and a mother and a sister were waiting in a distant home. A ship that had just come was ready to sail, and a month might pass before the landing of another vessel. He went to these people as their son"—
"Oh, yes," said Witherspoon, "and fell in love with the sister, and then had to tell his story."
"No, he didn't. He loved the girl, but only as a brother should. He was not wholly acceptable to his father, but"—
"Ah, that's all very well," said Witherspoon, "but what proof had he?"