“I will do the best I can, but I’m too old.”

“You are only a few years older than I am.  They’ll never know.  They’ll be blind.  You’ll have the proof.  Go at once.  You are Henry Witherspoon.  That’s all.”

The blustery afternoon settled into a calm as the sun went down, and a change came with the night.  The sufferer’s mind flitted back for a moment, and in that speck of time he spoke not, but he gave his friend a look of gratitude.  All was over.  During the night DeGolyer sat alone by the bedside.  And a ship came at morning.

A kind-hearted priest offered his services.  “The ship has merely dodged in here,” said he, “and won’t stay long, and it may be a month before another one comes.”  And then he added:  “You may leave these melancholy rites to me.”

A man stepped into the doorway and cried in Spanish:  “The ship is ready.”

DeGolyer turned to the priest, and placing a purse on the table, said:  “I thank you.”  Then he stepped lightly to the bedside and gazed with reverence and affection upon the face of the dead boy.  He spoke the name of Christ, and the priest heard him say:  “Take his spirit to Thy love and Thy mercy, for no soul more forgiving has ever entered Thy Father’s kingdom.”  He took up his traveling-bag and turned toward the door.  “One moment,” said the priest, and pointing to the couch, he asked:  “What name?”

“Henry—­Henry DeGolyer.”

CHAPTER V.

Dissecting A motive.

Onward went the ship, nodding to the beck and call of mighty ocean.  DeGolyer—­or, rather, Henry Witherspoon, as now he knew himself—­walked up and down the deck.  And it seemed that at every turn his searching grief had found a new abiding-place for sorrow.  His first strong attachment was broken, and he felt that in the years to come, no matter what fortune they might bring him, there could not grow a friendship large enough to fill the place made vacant by his present loss.  An absorbing love might come, but love is by turns a sweet and anxious selfishness, while friendship is a broad-spread generosity.  Suddenly he was struck by the serious meaning of his obligation, and with stern vivisection he laid bare the very nerves of his motive.  At first he could find nothing save the discharge of a sacred duty; but what if this trust had entailed a life of toil and sacrifice?  Would he have accepted it?  In his agreement to this odd compact was there not an atom of self-interest?  Over and over again he asked himself these questions, and he strove to answer them to the honor of his incentive, but he felt that in this strife there lay a prejudice, a hope that self might be cleared of all dishonor.  But was there ever a man who, in the very finest detail, lived a life of perfect truth and freedom from all selfishness?  If so, why should Providence have put him in a grasping world?  Give conscience time and it will find an easy bed, and yet the softest bed may have grown hard ere morning comes.