When he came in at friend Afton's I went to him. "Who was the deceased?" I asked—most bluntly, I fear me.
"She was my wife," he said sadly, and so altogether frankly that I knew he was no guilty man, whatever else he might be.
"I grieve with thee," I said. "And before thee goes up to thy solemn office of praying by thy dead wife's side, I would tell thee something. I met thee—look at me!—months ago, when I almost stumbled against thee outside of Benjamin Hicks's garden-gate. Thee was new to the place, thee told me."
"I remember you," he said, and flushed painfully.
"Nay, do not redden," I said almost with anger. "I know all things about thee, and nothing that is harmful."
"Nor ever has been harm," he said firmly.
"I know thee has had much money sent to thee, and thee does not know from whom."
"I do," he said, "and am ashamed to say I accepted it. It came from your friend Hicks's daughter, but it was for my poor wife—for her alone. I could not help myself—I—"
"Thee has no need of shame for that. The Lord must have made it patent to thee that we are placed here to help one another. And so much as friend Hicks's daughter did for thee she did well, and she has my consent; for it was my money that she sent thee."
"God bless you, man!" he said, holding his hand to his face, "for I am nothing to you."