"You don't know how much you miss," the minister ventured, quite a glow of colour on his otherwise pallid cheek. "There's nothing so interesting as human life."
"You bet—that's just it," chimed David's robust voice; "that's where a fellow gets his recreation. I don't think I'm master of my business till I know somethin' about my men—there ain't no process, even in manufacturing half so interestin' as the doin's of folks in their own lives. I know lots of their wives, too, an' half the kids—please give me a little more stuffin', Mrs. Craig: it's powerful good," and David passed his plate as cheerfully as his opinion.
"That may be your way of taking your recreation, Mr. Borland, but it isn't mine," retorted the host, obviously a little ruffled. "Business on business lines, that's my motto. Just the other day a little gaffer asked me for work, on the plea that he wanted to fix up his mother's eyes—wanted to send her to a specialist, I think—and I told him that had nothing to do with the case; if I wanted him I'd take him, and if I didn't, nobody's eyes could make any difference."
"Was his name Harvey Simmons?" David enquired somewhat eagerly.
"I believe it was. Why, what do you know about him?"
"Oh, nothin' much—only I hired him. And he isn't goin' to have no blind mother if my givin' him work will help—that's more. She's got a son worth lookin' at—that's one thing sure. An' he earned every penny I ever gave him, too—what was you goin' to say, Doctor?" For he saw the minister had something to offer.
"I know the little fellow well," said Dr. Fletcher, evidently glad of the opportunity. "Poor little chap, he's had hard lines—his father was a slave to drink, I believe, and the poor mother has fought about as good a fight as I ever saw. I'm sure she carries about some burden of sorrow nobody knows anything about. She has two children. Well, a long time ago now, one of the richest couples in my church offered to adopt the little girl—and they got me to sound her on the subject. Goodness me! You should have seen the way the woman stood at bay. 'Not till the last crust's gone,' she said. She was fairly roused; 'I'm richer than they are,' she said; 'I've got my two children, and I'll keep them as long as I can lift a hand to toil for them.' Really, I never felt more rebuked in my life—but I admired her more than I could tell. And the wee fellow raged like a little lion. 'Did he want to take sister?—tell him to go home, mother,' and he was fairly shouting and stamping his little foot, though the tears were running down his cheeks all the while. I said she had two children," the minister added, "but I think she lost a baby through some sad accident years ago."
David Borland's eyes were glistening. "Bully for you, Doctor!" his voice rang through the room. "Bully for you—I knew the lad was worth stickin' to. I'm proud to be mixed up with a chap like that," thumping the table as he spoke.
"That's what I often say to Peter," Mrs. Craig began mildly during the pause that followed. "I often feel what you sometimes say in your sermons, Doctor—that we ought all to be mixed up a little more together. The rich and the poor, I mean. They need us, and we need them—and we both have our own parts to play in the great plan."
"That's it, Mrs. Craig," David broke in lustily again; "that's exactly it—last Sunday when we sang that line, 'My web of time He wove,' I jest stopped singin'—it struck me, like it never done before, as how God Himself couldn't weave much without us helpin' Him—the rich an' the poor—it's Him that designs, but it's us that has to weave. An' I reckon our hands has got to touch—if they're workin' on the same piece," he concluded, drinking in the approving smile with which Dr. Fletcher was showing his appreciation of the quaint philosophy.