“Yes, not much, just enough to live.”
“And that?” Dr. Crossett pointed to the machine on the table. “What have you done with that?”
“Nothing!”
“And yet you told me once that it was the thing you prayed for.”
“I was a fool!” Dr. Barnhelm spoke with a bitterness that until long afterwards his friend could not understand. “I thought myself something of a philosopher, and yet I did not know that there is no curse so bitter as the curse of a granted prayer. It is always so; a young man prays for fame, and when it comes he finds that it is an empty word. Another prays for money, and when his prayer is granted he finds that his happiness is gone. The woman prays for love; it comes, and she finds the bitterness of it. The mother prays for the life of her child, and the child grows up and breaks her heart.”
“This will not do, Martin.” Paul Crossett rose and put his hands kindly but firmly on the other’s shoulder. “You are worn out; you are not yourself; tell me, do you sleep?”
“Not when I can help it,” answered Dr. Barnhelm, with a shudder.
“You will sleep now, and while you sleep I am going to sit beside you. Come! I will take you to your room; no, I will listen to no refusal. I have crossed the ocean just for this, to take care of you; the least that you can do is to obey my orders. Come!”
“But there is no need for——”
“Come!”