"You mean he ought to give himself," Mrs. Craig suggested, stirring the gravy as she spoke, the dismembered turkey being now despatched to its anointing.
"That's it exactly," rejoined David, beaming on his hostess, her own face aglow with the gentle light that flows from a sympathetic heart. "Everythin's jest a question of how much you give of your own self; even here," his voice rising as he hailed the happy illustration, "even in this here house—with this here bird—we ain't enjoyin' it because we're gettin' so much turkey, but because we're gettin' so much Craig," he went on fervently. "I could buy this much turkey for a quarter," passing a well-laden plate as he spoke, "for twenty-five cents at an eatin' house—but it wouldn't jest taste the same. It wouldn't have the Craig taste, you see—there wouldn't be no human flavour to it, like; an' turkey ain't nothin' without a human flavour. That's what makes everythin' taste good, you see," he concluded, smiling benignly around on the assembled guests.
"I don't believe in any such," retorted Mr. Craig; "no mixture of that kind for mine. Turkey's one thing, and humanity's another—no stews for me," he directed, smiling broadly at this flash of unaccustomed wit; "people eat turkey—but not humanity," he concluded victoriously.
"You're wrong there," replied David Borland quickly. "Folks lives on humanity—only it's got to be served warm," he added, falling to upon the turkey nevertheless.
"What do you think about it, Doctor?" Mrs. Borland enquired absently, for her real concern was with David; his dinner knife was her constant terror when they were dining out. All was well so far, however, her husband devoting it as yet to surgery alone.
"I think exactly what your husband thinks," replied the minister. "He has said the very thing I have often wished to say. I have always felt that what a preacher gives to his people—of his heart and love and sympathy—is far more than what he says to them. If it were not so, they'd better stay home and read far finer things than he can say; I often feel that preparing to preach is far more important than preparing a sermon. And I think the same holds true of all giving—all philanthropy, for instance. What you give of yourself to the poor is far more than what you give from your pocketbook—and, if the truth were told, I believe it's what the poor are looking for, far more than they are for money." The tenderness in Dr. Fletcher's face and the slight quiver in his voice attested the sincerity of his feeling; they might, too, have afforded no little explanation of the love that all Glenallen felt for the humble and kindly man.
Mr. Craig laughed; and that laughter was the key to his character. Through that wave of metallic merriment, as through a tiny pane, one might see into all the apartments of a cold and cheerless heart.
"That's mighty pretty, Doctor," he began jocosely; "but if I was poor I'd sooner have the cash—give me the turkey, and you can have the humanity. I believe in keeping these things separate, Dr. Fletcher," he went on sagaciously; "no mixin' up business with religion, for me—of course, helping the poor isn't exactly religion, but it comes mighty near it. And if I give anything to the poor—I used to, too, used to give—to give so much every year, till I found out one family that bought a watermelon with it, and then I thought it was about time to stop. But when I used to—to give to the poor, I always did it strictly as a matter of business; just gave so much to—to an official—and then I didn't want to know how he dispensed it, or who got it, or anything about it."
"Did the—the official—did he give all his time to dispensin' it, Mr. Craig? Or did he just do it nights and after hours?" enquired David Borland, detaching his napkin from his upper bosom and scouring an unduly merry mouth with it the while.
Mr. Craig glanced suspiciously at his guest. "I didn't wish to know," he replied loftily in a moment; "all I'm making out is the principle that governed me. And I always take the same stand in my business—always assume the same attitude towards my men," he amplified, as proud of his language as of his attitude. "Of all the men I've got hired, I don't believe I know a half dozen except the foremen. I get their work, and they get their pay every second and fourth Tuesday—and that's the end of it."