"Chiefly, it seems," he said, "to find work for lawyers; and, secondly, to protect the interests of those who are rich enough to pay for it."
"Oh, my boy, the bitterness of the wrong abides with you still, but God will make all things right by and by."
"Some things can never be made right, mother; but let us not talk of that now. I want you to get better fast, and think of all the good times we shall have when we get a little home of our own once more."
"Your father will not be there," she answered sadly; "and I want to be with him."
"But you should think of us also, mother," he said, with a shake in his voice.
"I do—I do," she answered feebly and listlessly. "I have thought of you night and day, and have never ceased to pray for you since I came here. But you can do without me now."
"No, no. Don't say that!" he pleaded.
"I should have feared to leave you once," she answered; "but not now."
"Why not now?" he questioned.
"Ah, Ralph, my boy"—and she smoothed the back of his hand slowly and gently—"you will never forget your father and the good name he bore. That name is your inheritance. It is better than money—better than houses and lands. He was one of the good men of the world—not great, nor successful, nor even wise, as the world counts wisdom. But no shadow of wrong, Ralph, ever stained his life. He walked with God. You will think of this, my son, in the days that are to come. And if ever you should be tempted to sin, the memory of your father will be like an anchor to you. You will say to yourself, 'He bore unstained for nearly sixty years the white flag of a blameless life, and I dare not lower it now into the dust.'"