"No, they are all poor people, Mr. Trott, and the money saved from such costly traveling expenses can be well used in other ways."
"We'll let that pass," John said, "and come to something else. I have put by a little money to be given or left to Dora, and—"
But raising his hand, and flushing freely now, Harold checked him.
"Don't speak of that, Mr. Trott, please!" he urged. "Dora mentioned something of the sort to me. She said you had thrown out some hint of it recently, and she and I talked it over. We both decided that we'd rather not let you do anything of the sort. You are a young man yourself, and have already done a thousand times more than your duty to Dora. Indeed, we'd both feel very unhappy if you carried out such a plan. You laugh at men of my calling and say they are grafters, but it is really not as you think. Most of the missionaries I've met are poor men, and they are willing to remain so. It would be an absurdity for Dora and me to accept help from you, when our organization is pledged to see that superannuated ministers and their wives are cared for as long as they live."
John was about to speak, vaguely pleased by the manliness of Harold's words, when Dora suddenly came in. Her face was flushed, but her eyes were steady. She stood by Harold's side, who had risen, and smiled half fearfully at John.
"Well, have you told him?" she asked Harold.
He nodded, and put his arm around her waist.
"I mean, have you told him about China?" she went on, anxiously.
"Yes"—with a smile—"and that we simply will not let him give us any of his hard-earned money."
"No, indeed, brother John," Dora cried. "Not a penny of your money will I take after all you have done for me. You must get married—you must be sensible and find you a good wife. You will need all the money you have, too. It is bad enough—my leaving you like this—without taking your savings. We simply won't hear to it, will we, Harold?"