"I'd sooner win along other lines than that," mused Harvey.
"Than what?"
"Than the money way. That isn't everything."
"That there was a beautiful thing you done in the cemetery," David digressed suddenly. "That there was high finance."
"What?" asked the bewildered Harvey.
"You know," said the other—"your mother's gravestone. I didn't know nothin' about it till Madeline took some flowers out one evenin'. That was lovely, Harvey."
Harvey's voice was thick. "That was the first money I ever saved, Mr. Borland," he said after a long silence; "the only money I ever saved."
"Savin's like them is holy," David said simply. "An' I'm goin' to tell you somethin', Harvey," as he braced himself for the purpose. "An' I'm goin' to trust you not to tell any one—not any one in the world."
Harvey turned to gaze into the earnest face.
"I don't know jest why it should be so hard to tell," David began calmly. "But it's this, Harvey—my day's jest about done—I ain't goin' to be here much longer, Harvey. No, don't now, please," he pleaded as he stretched out his hand towards the livid youth, already leaping to his feet. "Don't, Harvey, don't—but it's true. An' I've known it a good while now; the doctor told me long ago," he continued calmly. "My old heart thinks it's jest about quittin' time, it seems. An' I don't blame it a terrible lot—it's had a long day's work, an' I reckon it's a good deal like me, kind o' ready for its rest," the tired voice went on. "That's where the trouble is, anyhow," he affirmed placidly, "but I never told nobody—a fellow ought to burn his own smoke, I think, an' not let it trouble other people. But I've told you now, Harvey—so you won't be so terrible surprised when ... And besides," his voice breaking for the first time, "besides—I wanted to tell you somethin' else, my boy—I wanted to tell you—how—how much I loved you, Harvey—for fear—for fear I mightn't have another chance," as the tired face went downward to his hands, the hot tears trickling between the fingers that were so thin and worn.